


Destined to do This Forever

by Vulcanmi



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), The LEGO Batman Movie (2017)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breathplay, Clothing Kink, Denial, It's Batman so there's angst, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, So much denial, The LEGO Batman movie - canon divergence, The LEGO Batman movie in Arkham universe, Unhealthy Relationships, sassy alfred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2018-12-22 12:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 70,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11967591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulcanmi/pseuds/Vulcanmi
Summary: The Joker turns himself in.Batman waits for him to put whatever he's got planned into motion.And keeps waiting.





	1. Our Little Trysts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Want/Need](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10404180) by [ngm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ngm/pseuds/ngm). 



> Title (and summary) may change (again) (again) (I can't leave well enough alone)
> 
> Plot elements from the Lego Batman Movie set in the Arkham universe.
> 
> Obviously I was picturing Arkham Joker, but Heath Ledger's Joker could probably squeeze in there, minus the scars, considering I like the idea of the Joker enhancing his already chemically disfigured skin with makeup. Sorry it's not true to the game. But, in the lego batman movie, there is a small shot of him applying lipstick, so... canon?

"Hellooo, Gotham! Long time no see. I've just got back from vacation and have some lovely _souvenirs_ to share with you all." An explosion shook the camera. The man holding it curled his fire-truck red lips and howled with laughter that every Gothamite, from the highest politician to the lowest street thug, knew. "Don't worry, there's plenty left for everyone. I've put my little presents all over Gotham, where everyone can share."

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the television. The logo of the GCN flashed in the corner while Joker prattled on, though Bruce knew the footage couldn't be live. Someplace public. A school? No, too obvious. If it was a school, he would have mentioned something about children by now. Crude and tasteless.

He stood from his seat quick enough to knock it back on two legs, loosening his tie as he headed for the door.

"Lobster Thermidor sir, as per request."

"No time, Alfred." 

Bruce breezed past his butler without a glance at the steaming plate of food he held. Dinner could wait, would wait. He wasn't hungry— not for food, anyway.

"I suppose I'll just put this in the refrigerator then."

Bruce hurried down the hall. Outside one of the tall glass windows, the bat signal lit up the sky, pale and wavering on clouds that were still sun-kissed. He could hear the Joker prattling away on the television far behind him.

One month since the Joker broke out of Arkham asylum, one month since the low-key buzz of anxiety that troubled Bruce during every news broadcast, every stray giggle caught on the wind. It was almost a relief. The Joker would be back in Arkham before the night was over.

In the batcave, Bruce set up every news station he could think of on the multi-screened computer he had at his disposal while he dressed. The Joker's video played over and over on the largest screen in a jerky loop. Bruce pulled his cowl down and Batman glared at bright green eyes while that oh so familiar laugh echoed through the cavern. The sound made fire flush through his veins.

 

 

"Commissioner! We've got cars down at the largest branches of Gotham First, Catchington, and GNC. We're getting spread pretty thin sir, and the bomb squad still hasn't found any traces of... well, anything."

Outside was chaos. A sea of police officers swarmed around cars meandering every which way, setting up a blockade around the largest bank in Gotham, G United. Batman pressed two fingers against the side of his cowl, even though it wouldn't make the signal from the police radio come in any stronger.

He could hear Gordon respond in his typical growl. "Keep searching. Have all the evacuations been finished?"

"We're still working on some streets, but without an exact blast radius all we can do is guess."

"Just do your best, Ramirez." 

Batman checked the time. A little under two minutes before the next bomb was scheduled to go off. Joker was moving quickly tonight. If they were lucky, he’d slip up. In the meantime, he had to figure out where the clown was hiding. The Joker wouldn't blow G United first he was sure.

He slipped off the edge of the roof he was perched on, diving into the ocean of blue and red. With a flutter of his cape, he landed without a sound, and moments later he was behind the commissioner. 

"Batman!" Gordon said when he turned, pressing a hand to his chest. "Good to see you, though a little warning might have been nice."

"Have any of the banks complied with Joker's request?"

"You mean have they emptied the vaults? No, and we can't exactly make them. We don't even have time, the first bomb is going to go off any minute." Gordon turned, snapping at an officer frozen nearby. "Stop staring and get back to work Johnson."

Batman continued, ignoring the embarrassed officer's compliance. "There are over two-hundred banks in Gotham city, it's impossible he's rigged them all to blow."

"Yeah, but the ones he has will still do a lot of damage." Gordon turned to answer a frantic question, and Batman determined the conversation was over.

"I'll find him." 

Before Gordon could respond, an explosion echoed through the streets. Screams of police and civilians who had yet to clear the area followed. Batman grappled away, needing a better vantage point to see where the blast had come from. He was positive wherever it was, the Joker was nearby. Just a feeling, but he'd learned to trust himself when it came to those, especially regarding this particular lunatic.

_Now that's not fair, Bats. I'm not crazy. I'm not._

The voice echoed through his head as he searched for signs of smoke in the distance, full of mirth and somehow completely serious. 

It didn't take long to spot. Two streets away, smoke whipped through the air, disappearing on the wind. He darted towards it, into his own ocean of black as his cape caught the wind. Gliding over Gotham's streets, the smell of gunpowder and sweat was thick enough to taste on the air. Sirens were starting to drown out the screams. 

Batman landed on the building across from the bank that had blown, grimacing when he saw flames were already leaping to the small bakery next door. Thanks to the police efforts he didn't think anyone was inside, but there had already been too many casualties tonight. The Joker had made sure of that by starting everything off with a bang. 

He adjusted his cowl, switching the vision to detective mode. Logically speaking, anyone who was still in the area or wasn’t trying to leave had to be involved somehow. With any luck, he’d run into Joker’s goons and not people who were stupid enough to ignore the evacuation orders.

He swung across to another building, landing on the fire escape and continuing his search. Diagonally from his location, a curtain rippled in one of the top windows of a rundown apartment building. He grappled over, catching himself with his feet on the dirty, dusty brick. For a moment, he let himself hang and adjusted the controls on his hearing amplifiers. 

“…gonna risk my life for no stupid plan like this."

"Shut up, before the boss hears you.”

Good enough. Batman tugged the explosive gel gun from his belt with a slightly strained grunt, and gently eased the metal tip towards the window. In smooth, quick strokes he drew the outline of a bat, careful not to knock against the glass.

"Why are we blowing up the money, instead of stealing it?"

"You got paid, didn't you?"

That finished, he pressed the button on the grappling hook to reel himself in, climbing up on the roof to keep away from the blast radius. 

"I'm just saying, coulda got a whole lot more if Joker wasn't so obsessed with the bat."

"You wanna complain, go work for Scarecrow."

"You nuts? The guy's a loon."

A flick of his thumb over the detonator, and a resounding boom flew up to meet him. It was quickly suffocated by the chaos down below. Batman leaped down, and with a careful maneuver swung through the new entrance he’d created. 

Two thugs in clown masks lay unconscious on the floor, knocked out by the debris.

Beyond a closed door in front of him he heard footsteps.

"What was that?"

"It's gotta be the bat!"

"No way, how'd he find us so fast?" 

Dumb luck, but Batman felt no need to admit to that. He sidled up next to the door, listening as their footsteps escalated from walking to scrambling. 

Hardly a second later, it was kicked open. Moments after that a spray of gunfire doused the room. Typical of Joker’s hired hands to shoot first and ask questions later.

The moment they stopped shooting, he snapped his hand out, grabbing the barrel of one of the guns sticking past the door frame, yanking it and its holder inside.

“The bat!”

The comical, sad clown mask pinwheeled back, but not quick enough. Batman landed an uppercut under his chin, swiveling around to kick the other goon in the side while he fumbled with his gun. The Joker would never learn to hire quality. Then again, he did like them to be easily disposable. Easier to clean up the messes later.

The two dispatched, Batman quickly checked the hall they’d come from. Finding it empty, he slid inside. 

The lighting in the apartment building was almost suspiciously bad. Overhead the hanging bulbs flickered in their shallow dishes, casting a pale yellow light on the doors of the other tenants. Assuming there were any, besides Joker’s thugs.

Detective mode no longer necessary Batman switched it off, but paused when he heard whispers.

“You think they got him?”

“I dunno, shut up, he’ll hear you.”

Batman moved as silently as possible to the corner, but with the state of the wooden floors it was a futile effort. A groan of the floorboards followed him.

“What was that?!”

“You’re so paranoid, this building’s just old—“

The two thugs rounded the corner. Batman grabbed one into a headlock, yanking him down and flinging a batarang at the other, who fell with a cry. 

He flexed one muscled arm as he choked the first thug out, watching the other scramble to rise from the ground. The clown masks were good for something, giving just enough protection to keep the batarang from doing any real damage. 

Batman’s foot shot out, slamming against the man’s face hard enough to knock him out.

Gradually, the thug in his arms ceased struggling, and Batman let him drop. 

He checked the time again and cursed to himself— only ten minutes until the next bomb. The adrenaline in his body made his heart thunder in his ears, made his every movement sing while still staying precise and clear. He had to work faster, or the hard-earned money of Gotham’s citizens would be obliterated. This was already going to be disastrous for the city’s economy. Tame, by Joker’s standards.

He wondered what had pushed the other out to play so quickly.

As he moved down the dimly lit corridor in the direction the Joker’s thugs had come from, Batman noticed that each apartment door had a bright green Joker face. The nearly luminescent paint had dried dripping down the wood. Subtle, as always.

The rest of Joker's goons had to be expecting him by now. Because of course there were more. Joker loved throwing as many guys with guns as he could at him— sometimes literally. 

There was noise from the door at the end of the hall to his left. Batman could feel it— the Joker was behind that door. A moment later he heard that oh so familiar cackle, and bristled with irritation.

He couldn’t stand it when the Joker laughed. He’d be beating him bloody and the man would just laugh, and laugh, and—

 _Focus_. Bruce took a breath, and pulled out the explosive gel gun. After detonation, the small blast was responded to with shouts. He waited, but there was no gunfire. Considering how trigger happy they were, he took that to mean there were no guns in the room. Easy.

In his first movement inside, Batman brought two goons to their knees with a well aimed bat claw shot. Another charged, and Batman used his momentum against him, grabbing the back of his head and ramming it into the wall.

"Come on boys, it's six against one!" an all too amused voice giggled. Batman’s attention snapped towards it. In the back of the room, the Joker sat with crossed legs on a folding table, dressed to the nines in his customary purple suit. His pants rode up his ankles, revealed pristine white spats, and made Batman irrationally angry. 

In one arm, Joker held a terrified woman, and in the opposite glove-clad hand was Joker’s favorite knife. Small, with a purple handle, and the incredible ability to be pulled out of thin air.

The rest of the goons in clown masks rushed him, and the brightly painted, frowning faces looked nearly like a comedy routine as they lurched forward. Batman ducked and swung to the background music of Joker’s laugh. It started in a harsh staccato, fell to a grinding bass, then evened out into a cacophony of giggles like bows dropping harshly on violin strings. Quite clearly they were the strings linked to Batman’s patience.

Each chortle put an extra ounce of force into Batman’s punches, until he was grinding his teeth, glaring at the infuriating clown even as he dropped to the ground and knocked one goon’s legs out from underneath him.

Underneath the laughter was the sobering wail of a hostage who didn’t deserve what was happening to her. 

“Please,” she whimpered, and then she squeaked.

“Ah ah ah, just sit back and watch the show.”

“D-don’t hurt me!”

“That is so typical, I give you top quality entertainment and not even a thank you. Hear that Bats, the people of Gotham are so self-centered!”

“Joker.” The last goon dropped, knocked out against the dusty wood floor. When Batman faced him next, he had his knife pressed to the woman’s throat, her blonde curls plastered to her forehead with nervous sweat.

Anger flooded Batman so quickly he thought he might burst, and he leaned into a step closer.

“Tut tut,” Joker warned, tapping his knife against her throat. “Getting a little clingy there Bats, I need some breathing room.” His too wide smile pressed to the side of her face, and his too green eyes watched Batman. They were cold, clear, and too intelligent to be as insane as everyone claimed.

The woman began sobbing when the Joker’s fire-truck red lips brushed her cheek. 

Batman felt his anger rise. He hated when the Joker did this, brought innocents into their confrontations. Hostages were almost always part of the equation, but he only got up close and personal like this when he wanted to make a point. “What do you want, Joker?” Batman’s voice struck fear in the hearts of most criminals, but the Clown Prince of Crime only laughed.

"Oh, lots of things. Could use a new suit."

"Joker."

"So impatient! Fine, fine. Either I get to press this button," he held up a silly looking device with a large, plastic flower blooming in the middle, "Or the wet blanket dies. Simple, really."

"What does the button do?"

"Now now, that would be telling."

“Please Batman, help me!” The woman brought her hands up, like she might tug at the Joker’s hand, but seemed to think better of it.

“Will you be quiet? You’re stealing my spotlight!” The Joker shook her in his irritation.

The woman flailed, terrified, and Joker’s knife sliced into her delicate flesh like it was rice paper. Blood shot out of her severed artery in a gush of wet heat, coating the side of Joker’s face.

“No!” Batman darted closer, but it was too late. She was bleeding out too fast to save. Even still, his hands trembled, wanting to do something, anything.

“Whoops.” Joker shrugged, dropping the body to the ground. 

Batman caught her before she could hit. He pressed a hand against her wound, staring down at her shocked expression as weak, choked noises floated out of her mouth.

“Ahaha! Another admirer just _dying_ to get into your arms.” The Joker howled at his own (terrible) joke, pressing his hands against his stomach. 

When Batman looked up again, the Joker was fluttering his eyelashes.

The woman went still, and Batman’s free hand clenched into a fist. He laid her down gently, bile pooling in the back of his throat.

“She was ruining our fun, anyway.”

Batman snarled, lunging for the table and wrapping one large hand around the clown’s throat, painting white skin with blood. He pressed the other back, crowding him, not giving him time to move, time to escape.

A smile exploded across Joker’s face, a few giggles escaping before Batman started to squeeze. He lifted his other hand, wanting nothing more than to pound the psycopath’s face in.

“Oh Batman, I thought you might be a little more careful…” The Joker raised a hand, his thumb circling the button in the middle of the cheap, plastic flower. 

“Joker—“

The small ‘click’ seemed to echo in the room. Batman froze, no time to even chastise himself for being so careless. Pressed this close, he could smell the Joker, a mixture of blood, lipstick and a cologne he couldn’t name. He could see the way the Joker's lips trembled, as if only barely holding back a laugh.

“Three…. two…” 

Batman met the other’s eyes with the glowing ones of his cowl, a growl rising in his throat. The Joker’s eyes crinkled into little half moons. Batman squeezed harder, making the man’s voice breathless, but, unfortunately, not stopping him from speaking.

“One… boom!”

Batman waited, ears peeled. 

The Joker’s giggles got progressively louder. Then he raised his hands, letting the detonator fall from the right. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips when it hit the table, almost perfectly timed with the plastic-sounding clack. “Just kidding.”

Suddenly that right hand was full of that infuriating knife. It jabbed into Batman’s stomach, but the plating of his suit and their close proximity meant it didn’t get deep enough to be a concern. 

Batman grabbed the Joker’s wrist, twisting, and then whipping around to throw the Joker off the table. 

His knife went clattering across the floor.

The Joker let out a grunt upon impact, sliding a few inches back before dissolving into giggles. “You’ve gotta learn how to take a joke.”

“Give me the detonator to the bombs in the banks.”

The Joker pushed himself up, rolling gracefully around until he was sitting, leaning back on his hands. The movement reminded Batman of a cat.

"Hmm sorry, can't quite remember where I put it. Guess you'll have to frisk me." The Joker waggled his eyebrows. 

Batman took a step closer, and heard a faint splashing noise. He looked down, and grew queasy when he saw he was stepping in the blonde woman’s blood. 

If she wasn’t dead, she would be soon. 

“How rude of her, to ruin your boots.”

Batman stepped carefully over the woman’s body, seething. “Where is it?”

 “It infuriates you, doesn’t it? You try and you try but someone always… slips… through.” The Joker looked meaningfully at the girl, before the faux serious expression on his face faded and he scrambled to stand, backing away. “But you won’t stop, you can’t, because our games are just too much fun.”

“This isn’t a game, Joker.”

“Isn’t it? Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying all the effort I went through.”

Batman stomped closer, clenching his hands into fists. “I was actually thinking to myself this seems rather thrown together, for you.”

This made Joker’s smile fade, if only for a moment. Batman’s chest thrummed with accomplishment. 

“Oh Bats, you’ve dragged it out of me, I just couldn't wait to see you!” Unexpectedly, the Joker switched tactics and advanced towards him. He held out his arms, ruby lips curling up. 

Despite knowing the Joker's knife was on the ground, Batman was sure he had another one hidden somewhere. Probably several.

“I missed you.” The Joker stopped hardly three feet away, and raised a hand to whisper conspiratorially. “It’s okay to admit you missed me too, we’re all alone up here. Well, except for the others, but they’re hardly in any condition to be listening to any deep, dark secrets.”

For some reason this made the anger ebb back like a vengeful tide. Batman threw his fist out, punching Joker’s stomach without remorse. 

The clown fell to his knees. “Oh— oh ho! You really did miss me.”

“I didn’t miss you, Joker. You’re a deranged lunatic with too much free time on his hands.”

Joker slid down to all fours, cracking his neck. “Sure. Who else do you have to take out all that rage on? I’m the only one who can handle it… you need that. You need _me_. Something to do with all that strength. Taking down my boys, that’s the foreplay. Saving people and playing hero, that’s just the ah, post-coital nap. No, what you do this for, what _gets you off_ , is _us._ Our little trysts.”

Only the Joker would call getting beaten to a bloody pulp a ‘tryst’. The crude words were par for the course for the Joker, but they went against the grain of Batman’s mind so thoroughly, he felt the immediate need to shut the man up.

Batman kicked him in the side, and the Joker fell onto his stomach, then rolled onto his back. Batman was irritated that the Joker went down laughing, that he didn’t even bother fighting back. He didn’t know what was more infuriating. When the Joker was all coy giggles and flashing steel, darting around him and jabbing far harder than that skinny body should have been able to— or when he pulled his limp doll act, when he just laid back and took everything with a smile, a laugh, welcomed it with open arms and beckoning fingers. Whispered words ( _I want you to do it, hit me, come on_ ). It wouldn’t stop until Batman knocked him out, and it took so much longer than all his other lackeys. 

Batman walked over and kicked him again, brain racing to counter the ridiculous assertions. “When this is over, you’re going back to Arkham where you belong.”

Joker blew a raspberry. “Boring.”

"You're just another madman trying to take over Gotham. There is nothing special about ' _us_ ', because there is no ' _us_ '. I don’t need you. You mean _nothing_ to me." 

Batman aimed a punch at the clown’s cheek, and the momentum sent his head slamming against the floor. Batman waited, fist at the ready, but he didn’t move again. 

He exhaled a sharp breath through his nose, trying to calm down. He didn’t know what it was about the Joker’s words this time in particular that had him so riled up. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone on about their ‘relationship’. _You complete me._ Yes, let’s not forget about that. _You’re the reason I smile._  

No, not the first time.

He shook his head, kneeling down next to the other’s body and slipping his hands in between the fabric of his suit jacket, and the stupidly well-tailored waistcoat. 

Unsurprisingly, he found several more knives without even trying. He patted down the slender man’s sides, unable to believe how thin he felt under his hands. The Joker was always a strange thing to see, when he was unconscious. So still, without his ridiculous gestures, over the top smile, impossible to ignore words, he looked so small. 

The detonator was hiding under the man’s vest, attached to his belt. Batman worked it free, quickly pocketing it and moving near the window for better reception as he patched himself into the police radio. "Commissioner Gordon, I have the detonator.”

“What? Batman?”

“Bring your men to 14th and Harvard. You’ll find Joker and his goons there. …And a casualty.” He glanced over his shoulder, and his whole body went stiff. His eyes flicked from the floor, to the shadows of the room, to the door, but there was no sign of the Joker. “Scratch that, just his goons. Joker got away.”

Gordon cursed under his breath. 

Batman cut the signal, letting out a sigh as he tugged open the window. He rolled his neck, a sigh leaving him as he felt it crack. That familiar, satisfied feeling that came from thwarting one of the Joker’s elaborate plans drifted up in the back of his mind. 

He glanced at the spot where Joker had been only moments ago (how did he move so fast), noticing even his knife was gone. Nothing of him but a single cuff link had been left behind. 

The Joker was probably the most well-dressed man he'd ever met. Better than himself as Bruce Wayne, even. Granted, the Joker's choices in fashion were ridiculous, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t put together. 

Batman walked over and kneeled down, scooping up the accessory, looking it over. There was a little smiley-face on it. Of course there was. He stood, sliding it into an empty pouch on his utility belt. 

Whenever he found something the Joker left behind, he knew there was a slim chance he’d be able to use it to track the other down later, but so far that idea had never bore fruit. 

It didn’t matter, though. It’d go in the museum with the other, similar findings if it proved useless. 

It was time to go home.

 

 

Batman arrived back in the batcave not as sore as usual, but still fairly exhausted, and as he took off his cowl Bruce Wayne yawned. 

“Dinner’s in the refrigerator, sir. Shall I warm it up for you?”

“No thanks, Alfred… I think I’m just gonna sleep.”

“All right sir, but you _will_ be having dinner tomorrow night. At the table, like an adult.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. He nodded his assent as the two of them stepped in to the elevator that led back to the manor. “Whatever you say Alfred.”

 


	2. A Joke With No Punchline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne gets a taste of Gotham's new commissioner, and the Joker crashes the party.

****Commissioner Gordon was retired. It still sounded like a joke when he said it aloud. Bruce thoroughly believed that the commissioner deserved to retire, that he'd been through far more than any one person in his position should have to. You had to be cut from a certain kind of cloth to handle law enforcement in Gotham. Gordon could have worked the wheel that cloth was spun from, Bruce couldn't have asked for someone better suited for the job.

It seemed appropriate that his daughter took over.

If Bruce didn't know Gordon as well as he did he would have suspected nepotism. He'd been keeping an eye on the future commissioner ever since the announcement had been made. She'd done work in Bludhaven that seemed almost too good to be true. Bruce had never been much of an optimist, but it was hard not to hope that she would do just as good, if not better than her father. Batman didn't have to work with the police no, but it certainly made things a lot easier. 

Bruce pursed his lips as he stared down at the article on his phone, his eyes lingering on the smiling visage of Barbara Gordon.

"Do try not to walk in there looking that depressed."

Bruce startled, looking up and meeting Alfred's eyes in the rear view mirror. The only sound in the car was the gentle hum of the motor, and Bruce found himself caught off guard by the silence. His thoughts had been loud enough to ignore it. 

"I'm not," he began, and then forced a small smile, putting his phone to sleep and slipping it into his pocket. "You know how I feel about these sort of events."

"I would have thought compared to Batman's job, this would be easy."

Bruce gave a wry smile. "You'd think."

Bruce ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. He'd never had to act as Batman.

It didn't matter. Batman was Batman, Bruce Wayne was Bruce Wayne. He preferred to keep the two separate. Not acknowledging that the man behind the mask and Batman were one and the same was another way of making sure no one else put it together, either.

"It's still a battlefield out there, Alfred. Just a different kind."

"Fair enough, sir."

Bruce stepped out of the limousine to a thousand camera flashes. He plastered on a billion-dollar smile and slid out with all the poise money could buy.

"Bruce Wayne! Over here!"

"Wayne, what do you think of the new commissioner?"

"Mr. Wayne, give us a smile!"

Bruce had stepped fully into his playboy suit. There was no mask, no cape, but it was just as much of a costume. He winked at the closest female reporter, gave a wave, and then faced down the bright lights and microphones like he would guns and knives, without flinching.

Inside, the hotel plaza was ornamented with black and white balloons, pretty, twinkling lights, and great, gorgeous bouquets. Guests wrapped in silk and cotton mingled and swayed to the soothing slide of the orchestra on stage.

"Well if it isn't Bruce Wayne! I wasn't sure if you'd make it, you've been a veritable recluse lately."

Bruce turned towards the voice, recognizing it after a second of flipping through his mental rolodex. Alexandra Sharp, wife of Quincy Sharp, the insufferable warden of Arkham Asylum. Being on the board Bruce had met her several times, seen her at a few events similar to this one. Alexandra was a black-haired beauty with apple-red cheeks and dark lips. She liked to surround herself with wealthy, powerful people. She and Sharp were only recently married. Bruce recognized a gold digger when he saw one, but he didn't dislike her. 

"I wouldn't miss this. The commissioner and I go way back."

"Is that so? Are you certain you don't just want a crack at his daughter?" Alexandra laughed, tossing her head back and showing off straight, white teeth.

Bruce grinned, tilting his head in a way he knew people found charming. "Now Mrs. Sharp, that would be telling. Where is your husband, I should say hello."

Alexandra waved a hand. "He's probably still at that damnable asylum. He's all caught up in his campaign, he always brings it up when he wants to dodge social obligations. But I assure you, the next time there's a soirée he _will_ be escorting me."

Bruce chuckled. The words made him think about their current mayor, about the statement he'd put out saying he would not be running for another term. About the Joker, and the stunt he'd pulled at city hall that Bruce was fairly certain was the catalyst for this decision. Bruce did not blame him. Every official in Gotham, every high profile figure was in danger so long as the Joker was free. 

_You need that. You need me._

"I have no doubt you'll convince him," Bruce said, to steer his thoughts back on track. It was inevitable though. As usual, once the Joker entered his mind he tainted everything, like a single drop of dye in a cup of water. 

The Joker had been too quiet lately.

"You must try the champagne, I shall have to take back everything I've said about our boys in blue, they certainly spared no expense."

After the bombs, Bruce had expected Joker to bounce right back. He'd gotten away mostly uninjured. But a week went by without a single sighting of the clown.

"Oh, have you heard about Amelia? I shouldn't say, really, but..."

After two weeks, Bruce had grown paranoid. It was nearing the fourth. His self-proclaimed greatest enemy had to be planning something big.

"...can you believe it?"

Bruce blinked to make his eyes focus, looking down at Alexandra's expectant face. He forced a laugh, swiping up a champagne flute from a waiter who walked by. "Where do you hear these things?"

This seemed to satisfy her. "I have my sources."

Silence rippled across the room, and Bruce turned his eyes towards the stage. Being fashionably late had its perks, it never took long for the main event to begin. 

Applause started up as Commissioner Gordon walked onto the stage, his thick mustache tracing the line of his small smile. 

As everyone clapped and cheered, Bruce was suddenly stuck with the smallest pinprick of irritation. He couldn't help but wonder if they realized just how much he'd sacrificed for them.

That wasn't fair. People just like these were the reason he fought. These were all good people. At least, normal people. Real people. Bruce didn't feel real sometimes. Spending half the day pretending to be someone else would do that to anyone.

"Thank you citizens of Gotham, for this kind send off." Gordon adjusted the microphone, a small scratching sound echoing throughout the room. "Over the time I've spent as police commissioner, I've learned many things about our great city, and its citizens. Gotham is full of good, kind people; who are strong enough to stand up in the face of adversary, again and again. No matter what may come our way, we never break. That strength is what has kept me going all these years, and I thank you for it."

The crowd clapped for the pretty words, but Bruce felt the commissioner's speech slide through the surface level of his thoughts and resonate. Commissioner Gordon was an embodiment of everything Bruce stood for, everything Batman wanted to protect. 

"As they say, out with the old, and in with the new. I'm proud to introduce Gotham City's new commissioner, Barbara Gordon."

The applause started up again as Gordon stepped aside, and Bruce used the distraction to wander away from Alexandra, closer to the stage. 

A young woman in a stunning purple dress stepped up to replace Gordon. Long red hair tumbled past her shoulders. She stood with shoulders back, chin up, confidence enough to rival the Joker's. "Thanks, dad," Barbara said with a small smile to her father, before turning to the audience. "Commissioner Gordon has always done a great job protecting Gotham city. However, despite his best efforts, there's always been a dark shadow plaguing the police's efforts." She paused to let that sink in, to take a deep breath. "Batman isn't a police officer. Yet we cooperate with him like he is. We give him full jurisdiction over our investigations, and take criminals he brings in without even asking for evidence of a crime being committed."

Bruce stared in shock, all traces of the charming playboy gone. 

Whispers floated up like cigarette smoke, drifting lazily in the air, before quickly growing louder, stronger. 

"Batman does a better job than the police could ever do."

"Yeah, but who is he really?"

"Does it matter? He saved my cousin's life!"

Barbara held up a hand to quiet the uproar that was starting to take over the room. 

Bruce's stomach was a whirlpool of unsettling feelings. 

"It is the police's job to keep Gotham safe. I'm not saying Batman hasn't done a lot for this city. He has. Without him we would have seen many more disasters than we have. But I want to work on making the city's _unmasked_ heroes more informed, more competent, and more capable, so that we don't _need_ a vigilante cleaning up our streets."

Bruce knew that logically, he should agree with what Barbara said. He could not be Batman forever, there would be a time when he had to hang up the cape. He knew that. 

That time had not yet come. The whole reason he'd become Batman was because Batman could do things the police couldn't. Batman was stronger, faster, Batman wasn't afraid of anything. Batman was more than just a man.

Bruce sucked in a breath, watching Barbara face down the unrest her words had caused. 

She opened her mouth to go on, but instead the room began to fill with the faint sound of music.

It was not the orchestra, and as it grew louder Bruce got the impression that it had been playing for some time, he simply had not noticed it due to the crowd, the distractions. It was out of place. Swing melodies with silly trumpet riffs and a punchy piano. It was accented with the hushed giggle of someone trying— not very hard— to be quiet. 

Bruce's heartbeat was immediately a strong percussion to match the music. He pushed through the crowd, opposite the people who were moving to find the source. 

Bruce yanked his phone from his pocket. Before he could dial, an explosion blew the doors from the entrance. Bruce no longer stood out from the crowd, everyone shoving people aside, trying to get free. Bruce Wayne could do nothing about what was about to happen, he needed to get out, to get someplace secluded.

In a few seconds of sheer impossibility, there were clowns everywhere. It was like they just appeared out of thin air, though Bruce knew that couldn't be the case. Hiding in plain sight, pretending to be servers, to be guests. Bruce couldn't believe he hadn't been more careful. The Joker had been too quiet, he should have known he would strike this night. 

Masks were passed around, guns drawn, and the screams grew to a crescendo.

The officers around the stage snapped into action. Everyone ducked down. For a second, Bruce thought there might be a chance to turn the tables. Then one of the officers dressed in black turned neatly and shot his partner in the head, and Bruce accepted that nothing was ever that easy with the Joker. 

The double agent moved towards Barbara.

Bruce shoved his phone to his ear, searching for an exit. He had to contact Alfred, had to get his things.

"Ah ah ah pretty boy, you're staying right here." A burly clown blocked his path, aiming a machine gun with menacing intent. 

Instead of disarming the man like Bruce wanted, he had to turn, had to plaster a look of fear on his face. There were too many people around, and Bruce Wayne should not know what to do with a gun pointed at him.

The clowns herded him, and the rest of the guests who'd been moving towards the back exits to the center of the room. 

All the while soft giggling escalated until it was the manic laugh that caused goosebumps and pounding hearts and trembling lips. Pure panic sent the room spiraling further into chaos. The socialites in the room blubbered and begged and bribed for escape, tears like diamonds on makeup plastered faces. 

The Joker's entrance was anti-climatic. He strolled through the blown doors with a whistle on his lips, hands settled casually in his pockets. He wasn't even armed. 

A hush fell over the room as the party-goers stared at a man they'd probably only ever seen on TV.

"Bring me the new commissioner." The Joker's tongue curled around the last word like it was a particularly juicy lolly. 

Gordon's voice rang out. "No! She's not the commissioner yet, take me—" His words were cut off by a gruesome _crack_.

"Dad!"

Bruce glared at the Joker with all the intensity he could muster, even knowing the man wouldn't see, wouldn't care. Bruce was helpless. He could feel a creeping inevitability. He couldn't let people die to protect his secret identity. 

The Joker had crashed events Bruce Wayne had been at before, but he always managed to slip away. The Joker must have brought out his whole crew, because Bruce couldn't see an opening where one of them wouldn't be able to see him. It was frustratingly competent compared to his last attack.

Moments later, two clowns dragged a furious Barbara Gordon to stand before their boss. 

She didn't struggle, but even from where Bruce stood he could feel the intensity of her glare. The guns trained on her did not faze the strength of her anger. "You didn't have to hurt him. You won't get away with this, Joker."

This made the Joker laugh so hard he doubled over, and sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. "Oh, ho ho, I think I _will._ " He walked towards her, his smile curling into something dangerous as he repeated himself, slow and deep. "I think. I will."

The Joker threw his arms up in a grand gesture, addressing the room. "I've got a surprise for you guys. And it's gonna make you _smile._ "

Bruce could tell everyone in his vicinity was grimacing. When the Joker next opened his mouth, Bruce stepped forward.

"I surrender."

Everything stopped. The crowd stopped whimpering, the clowns stopped threatening, the air didn't know how to air anymore.

Barbara's glare was now pure confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"I surrender," the Joker repeated. He held out his wrists, as if he expected her to cuff him then and there.

Everyone snapped back into motion.

"Boss, _what_?" One of the clowns next to the commissioner stepped forward, head tilting so far in his sad clown mask it might have been funny, if Bruce weren't so confused.

"We are all surrendering," the Joker explained.

The clowns were lowering their weapons, looking around at each other, searching their comrades for an explanation. "We are?"

"Get down on the ground!"

Like it was timed, the Joker turned his head, and police poured into the room from the blown entrance. The clowns raised their weapons, but their guns didn't seem to be working. 

Bruce watched the clowns whipping their heads around, squeezing triggers and cursing. The clown nearest him tried to shoot, and instead of a bullet a little flag rolled out, 'BANG' written in comically stylized letters.

Bruce's head hurt.

The officers began to gain confidence as they overtook the clowns, reading their rights. A group of four officers with guns trained on the Joker slowly advanced toward him.

Commissioner Gordon— ex-commissioner— approached. There was a swollen, red gash on his forehead. "What are you planning, Joker?" He spat the words in the villain's face, and the Joker wiped his cheek as if spittle had landed on it.

"I just want to go to Arkham and pay for all of my crimes." The Joker shrugged, and fluttered his eyelashes.

Ex-commissioner Gordon stared.

One of the officers around him jabbed his gun out further. "You deserve the chair, clown."

The Joker rolled his eyes, throwing his wrists up. " _Hello_ , I said _I surrender_ , I'm practically throwing myself at you guys! Can we hurry this up?"

Bruce held his breath when a female officer yanked the Joker's arms roughly behind his back and slapped on a pair of cuffs. 

"That's it, nice and tight," the Joker said, leering.

This was suspicious. The Joker wouldn't just turn himself in for no reason. Goons were being carted out by the clown-car-full.

"Boss! Boss this is part of the plan right? Boss!"

"You're gonna break us out right?"

"Are we still getting paid?"

Bruce had to admire the dedication.

Minutes later the Joker was dragged off. It was the most cooperative Bruce had ever seen him. He didn't even crack a joke. All the Joker did was glance around the room with furtive, candy green eyes, searching for something.

Their gazes locked for half a second. Bruce's chest tightened with the squeeze of a thousand tourniquets, and the Joker looked away without a second glance.

Bruce waited for the punchline. He was certain Harley Quinn had to be lurking in the corner, waiting with that giant hammer.

The joke didn't end. He and the rest of the guests crowded the destroyed entrance and watched the police throw Joker into the back of a police vehicle while giggles that almost seemed involuntary leaked from his apple-red lips. 

Bruce watched them drive off until they disappeared, waiting for anything— an explosion, a gunshot, the end of this crazy dream, but nothing came. 

Somewhere in the crowd, someone started clapping. It escalated into full-blown cheers. They were cheering. 

Bruce pulled out his phone. "Alfred, I need you to come pick me up."

"The party can't be that bad, Master Wayne."

"Joker turned himself in."

"Have you been drinking?"

"The Joker turned himself in. It's a trap. I need to make sure the officers are safe."

There was a pause, and Bruce understood Alfred needed a moment to process, but time was of the essence. 

"I'll be right there."

 

He couldn't get in his suit fast enough. Driving to Arkham only made the coil of tension in his stomach wind tighter. As the tumbler followed the lone road there he kept an eye out for car accidents, explosions, but found none.

Something wasn't right. He could feel it bone deep. He was an audience member in a horror movie, watching the killer creep up behind the poor ingenue. 

Even moving as quickly as he could, by the time he got to Arkham the Joker was nowhere in sight.

There were still police around, lingering, and Batman wasted no time approaching. 

"Joker's up to something."

The two officers he stood between both flinched, stumbling back. 

"Batman!" 

The second officer recovered a bit quicker. "He's all... cooperative." She folded her arms across her chest. "It's really, really weird. I don't like it."

"I don't either. Let me talk to him."

"Uhh..."

"It's all right, Sheila."

Batman turned, startled to see Ex-commissioner Gordon. His wound had a small bandage on it. Even though he stood tall, something about his face looked haunted.

"I thought you retired."

"One more night on the job won't kill me." Gordon took off his glasses, wiping them on his shirt. With them off, it was easier to notice the dark circles under his eyes. 

Batman looked away.

"Is it naive of me to hope he's serious?"

"No," Batman declared. "It just proves that he still hasn't gotten to you."

Gordon smiled. 

When they walked inside, Quincy Sharp stood looking somehow simultaneously severe and smug. His black suit and ostentatious cane looked more befitting of a politician than the warden of a high security rehabilitation center.

"Make sure the Joker is nice and sedated for our interview tomorrow, we wouldn't want any embarrassing setbacks," the warden said to a young doctor standing nearby.

She nodded her head and murmured something under her breath like she was only half listening, scribbling down a note on the paper affixed to her clipboard. Strands of her brown hair were falling out of the tight bun they had been pulled back in, giving her a haggard appearance. Considering their newest inmate, Batman imagined everyone was feeling a little tense.

"I want my session with him first," the doctor insisted.

"Interview?" Batman asked to inject himself into the conversation.

Sharp turned, wrinkling his nose. "Yes. Gotham's most dangerous criminal comes to Arkham voluntarily for rehabilitation. This is a great time for our city. It's a story that needs to be told, don't you think?"

Gordon glanced at Batman. "Good for business."

"Be careful if you're going to put the Joker on TV," Batman warned, "He could use that to send a message to his followers."

"The Joker will be so doped up he won't know what hit him," the doctor said sharply. "I'll personally make sure of that."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Young."

"A real up and comer, Mr. ...Batman." Sharp cleared his throat. "Why is this man in my asylum, Commissioner? For that matter, why are you?"

"We have reasons to believe this is all a ploy," Gordon said. "I came to interrogate him, but I think 'this man' could do a better job of it."

"Oh really?" Sharp did not look impressed. 

Batman didn't know what Sharp had against him— he provided him with half his patients.

"We have a team of the finest doctors and guards in this city, they can certainly handle one madman."

"With all due respect Warden Sharp, the Joker has escaped Arkham enough times to make that argument feel weak. There could be lives at stake."

The warden turned an odd purple color, likely thinking of a way to refute that claim without admitting it was true. Finally, he cleared his throat. "If you insist on questioning my patient, I won't stop you."

Dr. Young stepped forward. "He's only just arrived, he won't be in his cell just yet. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions." 

Batman assumed she'd be speaking to the commissioner— ex-commissioner, that was going to take some getting used to— but when he turned his eyes to her they were staring straight into his own. 

"What questions?"

"You have arguably spent a lot of time with the Joker. You know him."

"I do."

"What can you tell me about his mental state? In all of our interviews, every time I feel like I'm getting close to a breakthrough..." She frowned, staring down at her clipboard. "Not a single doctor has ever agreed on a diagnosis for him. I'm... missing something. Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?" She looked up at him imploringly, and Batman hesitated. 

He doubted she wanted to hear what he had to say about the Joker. The man was ruthless, cruel, he had no respect for human life whatsoever, but he wasn't insane. He was... something other. He was a monster. A monster in human skin.

"You're the doctor."

Dr. Young tilted her head. "I believe he can be helped. He talks about you a lot, you know."

Batman wasn't surprised, but the words still made him fight to keep his face neutral, made his lungs restrict oddly. 

He wanted it to be true. He wanted to believe no one was beyond saving. 

Sharp waved a hand, tapping his cain against the ground. "Come now doctor, you can't expect one madman to understand another." He gave the slightest of sneers, and Batman ignored it.

 

Gordon and he were led towards the maximum security ward by two armed guards. The whole time Batman waited for the sound of alarms. For the alert that the Joker had broken free, that he'd stabbed a nurse, or released all the inmates. 

Nothing came.

By the time they were walking through the high security doors Batman was a black bundle of irrational anger and fury. 

"What do you think he's up to?" Gordon murmured. 

"I don't know. I don't like it."

The Joker always had to make a scene, always had to pull these grand gestures. He'd figure out what it meant. He had to.

The guards escorting them paused just down the hall from where Batman knew the Joker's own personal cell was, behind two more doors electronically locked. The maximum security ward had not changed since the last time, and Batman would be hard pressed to tell them how to up security. All Bruce could do was continue to throw money at the facility, and hope for the best. It wasn't the guard's fault, or the warden's. 

The Joker was unpredictable, unstable, and too smart.

Gordon paused, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Let me know what you find out."

"You're not going in?"

"I am literally less than a day away from retirement. I don't have a death wish."

Batman tried not to let his lips twitch at that. He didn't want to be _amused_ facing off against the Joker. He'd rather not waste time.

The guards opened the first door with a keycard, and Batman could see both of them were sweating.

The Joker's reputation preceded him. He'd killed almost as many Arkham guards as he had civilians. Batman couldn't understand. They had guns, and straight jackets, and the Joker was 160 pounds of bad jokes and lipstick. 

One of the guards kept his gun trained on the last door as they approached, and while for most it would be paranoia, Batman knew it was necessary. With the Joker, you never knew.

The other guard paused, keycard near the slot.

"You shouldn't go in there," he warned. His voice was quiet, haunted. 

Batman held up a hand. "It's fine. I need ten minutes alone with him."

The guard hesitated. "I'll give you five. He's a crafty son of a bitch. I don't know how he does it, but I've seen him go into rooms with four of us and walk out alone."

Batman gave the guard a sharp look. "I'm the last person to underestimate him." 

There was a final moment of hesitation before the guard opened the door.

The Joker's cell was small. One bed, a toilet, and a sink was the extent of it.

The Clown Prince of Crime was lounging on top of his single sheet, not even glancing up as the door opened. 

Batman stepped into the cell, shoulders back, ready for what was sure to be an inevitable fight, before he got answers. 

The door creaked shut behind him and left the two of them in a crackling silence. It persisted for longer than Batman was comfortable with. The Joker's chin was nearly touching his chest, and not being able to see his face was unnerving. 

Finally, the Joker lifted his head. One green eyebrow shot up, then the other. "Bats!"

They'd wiped off his makeup. He seemed somehow paler with a naked mouth. No matter how many times he saw it Batman didn't think he'd ever get used to it.

"Don't tell me you're my new roommate." The Joker sat up and pressed his feet together like an excited child, knees poking up and out.

"You know you're not allowed to have roommates after what happened the last time."

The Joker giggled breathlessly for a second, before pressing a hand to his chest. "I didn't touch him!"

"You made him claw his own eyes out."

"You can't prove that."

Batman took in a steadying breath, and then stepped forward. He watched the Joker for any sudden moves, a hint to what was to come. 

He was well aware this was probably a trap. Better he walk into it than an unsuspecting guard. "What are you planning, Joker?"

"No plan. You of all people—"

Batman cut him off, moving closer. "What's your plan?" He repeated. He had no desire to listen to the other's nonsensical ramblings about him. 

The Joker didn't like that. He pursed his lips, looking _offended._ "Oh Bats, we’re really going to have to work on these trust issues of yours—"

Batman snapped out a hand and grabbed the Joker by the throat, shoving him down onto the bed. Violence was the only thing that got a reaction out of the Joker, though it wasn't always a good one. Batman needed to rile him up though, get him talking. He had five minutes and he couldn't waste them. 

Joker's hands snapped up to tug his away, but he didn't resist other than that. It was too easy to grab his wrists, to handcuff them to the long metal pole that served as the bed's headboard. 

Joker looked up when he heard the click. “I’ve gotta say, it’s extremely rude to barge into someone else’s room and lock them up without even asking permission.”

“Shut up. I know you’re in here for a reason.” 

"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out. Insulted, really." The Joker raised one knee to rest his foot on the bed in such a casual, human gesture that it made Batman uncomfortable.

He stared briefly at the Joker's lanky form wrapped in Arkham Asylum's standard issue uniform, and realized the answer he was looking for could be right under his nose.

It was a long shot, but he was desperate. 

He couldn't stand the thought of Joker spending a few weeks here, then escaping, just like always. Of chaos exploding while Batman sat back and accepted he had no idea what the Joker was doing. 

Batman crawled onto the bed. He ignored the Joker's eyebrow lifting in question. "Open your mouth."

"You know, I had a dream like this once."

His life would be so much easier if the Joker were mute. Batman held back the long-suffering sigh he wanted to let escape, leaning closer. “I’m going to search you.”

A sly smile was the only warning before the Joker's long legs snapped up, kicking him hard enough to send him off balance.

He recovered before he could fall off the bed, grabbing the Joker’s ankles out of the air and snarling. 

The Joker giggled. “Reflex?”

“Try that again, and you'll regret it." He shook one of the Joker's ankles unconsciously, and then realized the oddity of holding them up. Batman released them, straddling the Joker's legs to avoid any more incidents. 

“You’re right, I’d hate to be unconscious for _this._ Are you gonna strip search me?” The Joker purred, and Batman's face flushed with anger.

Batman would never understand how the Joker could be so utterly shameless.

"Here, I'll help." The Joker laughed while he squirmed his hips against the bed, succeeding in sliding his cotton pants down a good few inches before Batman grabbed at the waistband.

"Joker."

"What? You don't want my cooperation?"

It occurred to Batman that Joker was riling _him_ up, instead of the other way around. 

He grabbed the Joker's jaw, prying it open and taking a look inside. He thought about searching under the villain's tongue but knew he'd get a bitten off finger for his troubles.

The Joker warbled something while Batman held his mouth open, and then laughed, and Batman released his face.

He kept a hand at the Joker's throat to prevent biting, or head butting, and ran his fingers through the Joker's hair. The green strands were bowed back like grass bending to the wind, and still full of product. Nothing hidden though, no concealed switch or blade. Batman pulled his fingers away, wishing his gloves didn't dull so much sensation. It would be all too easy to miss something small. 

"Do you want me to give you the number of my stylist?" The Joker taunted. 

Batman pushed thoughts of removing his gloves away, knowing he couldn't give the Joker any sort of advantage, even a small one. He shifted upwards, grabbing the Joker's shoulder. "Roll over."

"I had a dream about this too."

"Roll over," Batman commanded, more forcefully this time.

The Joker seemed to be having a grand old time. He complied while giggling, his arms twisted in an awkward position due to the cuffs. 

It put Batman on edge. Everything about this was strange. He'd never been this close to the Joker without a knife in the equation.

With Joker face down against the sheets, he looked deceptively vulnerable. It made Batman uncomfortable to see pale, knobby elbows and wrists twisted up, green hair sticking out every which way from how he’d been laying on it. 

A knock came at the door. 

The guard's voice drifted inside. "Batman? I've got to—"

"I need more time." He couldn't leave with nothing. 

"...Okay, but five more minutes is it. Warden probably wouldn't..." Whatever the rest of the guard's sentence was, it went ignored.

Batman turned back to the Joker, who was still just lying there. His shirt had ridden up when he turned, revealing a patch of chalk-white skin and the beginning of a scar Batman knew he was responsible for. 

The Joker wiggled his ass. “Come on Bats, I don’t have all day.” His voice was muffled against the sheets. 

Batman felt _offended_. He wasn't the one wasting time. 

He felt down the Joker's arms, dragging his fingers over the bend in them, face the very picture of concentration. He could feel the wiry muscle the Joker's small frame hid. Batman reached the Joker's biceps, then slid his thumbs up and around to his armpits.

He was considering the possibility that the Joker had cut himself, hidden something underneath the skin, when Joker squirmed. Batman squeezed, but the Joker only squirmed harder.

"That tickles!"

"Stay still." Batman was strangely irritated. Something about the Joker being ticklish just seemed wrong.

He continued on, running his hands down the Joker's slender sides. He shifted his weight back the further down he moved. Down the Joker's hips, his thighs, checking one leg, then the other. Still there was nothing out of the ordinary. 

He pressed his thumb against the bone of the Joker's ankle, searched each slim foot, despite doubting he'd managed to hide anything in the plain white socks.

It was unbelievably frustrating to be so close yet still unable to see. 

The Joker wiggled his ass again and Batman glared at it. His body thrummed with that special sort of annoyance only the Joker could fill him with.

"What, no cavity search? And here I thought you liked to be thorough."

Batman glowered. Was it only a disgusting joke? Or was it a hint hidden in plain sight? It was very possible the Joker could be smuggling something into Arkham that way. It was a common method. 

The Arkham staff knew that though, and had likely already checked. If they weren't too concerned with getting the Joker locked up immediately. 

 _Another wiggle_ , and Batman reached out without thinking. His fingers and half his palm settled over the small mound that made up the left half of the Joker's ass before the muscles tensed under his touch, and Batman heard a short, startled inhale. 

Batman jerked his hand away, suddenly feeling entirely too warm in the costume. 

The Joker was silent.

“I’ll figure it out Joker, whatever you’re planning,” he said, because it was too quiet. 

An elbow jerked back and caught him in the jaw. He backed away quickly as the Joker abruptly writhed, twisted, wrists impossibly free.

The Joker rose from the bed, popping dislocated thumbs back into place, handcuffs still attached to the headboard. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, Bats, I don’t think you will.” He was smiling, but there was something odd about it. 

Batman knew every single one of the Joker's smiles, yet he could not place this one.

He tapped his knuckles against the door. "Open it."

After a generous pause, the door slid open with an electronic beep.

The Joker remained where he was, standing casually by the bed. 

Batman eyed his handcuffs.

"I'm keeping your little present. I'll take good care of them, I promise."

"Joker," he warned, but the Joker only stuck his tongue out like a five-year old, hopping back onto the bed. 

"If you want them, come and get them."

He could have gone over there, and wrestled the cuffs from the clown, but he didn't want to give the Joker the satisfaction. Instead he whipped around, annoyed, and let the guard close the door behind him.

"Did he say anything...?"

"No. But keep a close eye on him."

"Of course, Batman sir."

"...Don't call me that."

 

He met back up with Gordon, but the ex-commissioner took one look at his stony face and understood.

Gordon sighed and shook his head. "I guess all we can do is wait."

Batman clenched his fists. "No. The Joker might not talk, but there's one other person I'm sure knows about his plans. Someone a little more malleable."

Gordon eyed him. 

"You're gonna go looking for Harley Quinn?"

"It's the only possible lead."

Gordon nodded, but Batman was already heading towards the exit. 

It would have been better to just start with Harley. She was easy to make slip up, to manipulate.

 

As he was sliding back into the tumbler, trying to brainstorm locations Harley could be hiding out, Batman realized just how odd it was that his retreat hadn't been heralded by the sound of laughter. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this whole chapter an excuse to get Batman to frisk Joker? I'll never tell.
> 
> Title credit to Attila 12


	3. The Dark Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce searches anywhere and everywhere for a clue to the Joker's plans. Instead he finds a lot of things he'd rather just ignore.

"I hear you have a new inmate." Bruce Wayne put on his most dazzling smile. The nurse who had been instructed to keep Arkham's wallet distracted didn't stand a chance.

Her name-tag said 'Bridget', and she had a pair of perfectly round glasses perched on her nose, neat blonde hair tucked up into an equally neat bun. "He's more like a... returning member of our little family."

Bruce wet his lips, watching her with earnest eyes. "I'd really like to get a look at him," he said, realizing it was a mistake from the way her expression closed down.

Bruce thought to himself he really used to be better than this.

It was the Joker. The not knowing. The Joker was always unpredictable, but this was a different sort of strange. It had been three days and for all intents and purposes the Joker had made no moves. It was throwing Bruce off his game. 

"Oh... I don't think that's a good idea."

Bruce hurried to explain himself. "It's just, I was there the night he turned himself in. Since I'm on the board I couldn't help but be interested in such a notorious criminal after such an obvious cry for help. Do you think he can be rehabilitated?" That was like saying Batman was diurnal. 

"I...I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne." Bridget bit her lip, fiddling with the front of her uniform. When he opened his mouth to argue again, she shook her head. "I would ask the warden— our maximum security patients only get visiting hours under _special circumstances_ —"

Bruce was certain those circumstances involved a pen and a checkbook.

"—But he's been confined to solitary."

Every muscle in Bruce's body tensed. "Why?"

"He um... he killed another guard."

Bruce was incredulous. "What? He's only been here three days!" He stopped himself, trying to push away his anger, keep his voice level. 

It was too late, though, the nurse stared at him with wide, startled eyes. "He... he's a very difficult... patient. A guard found a pair of handcuffs in his room and when he tried to take them there was— well— he's just, he's a very difficult patient."

It took everything Bruce had not to react to this. What had he been thinking? He hadn't. He couldn't _think_ when the Joker's involved. "That does sound difficult."

"He's sedated now," Bridget assured. She forced a smile and then sucked in a breath, muttering, “They should just keep him under all the time.”

Bruce couldn’t disagree with her. They should.

“There’s something… something not right about him. He can… the things he…” She pressed a hand over her face. “I apologize, that’s really unprofessional of me… I… I love my work here, the opportunity to really help people. We have success stories. They just get overshadowed by our more… infamous cases.”

Bruce smiled. “Of course. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe Arkham was doing its job. Maybe I’ll come back, sometime. Once he’s out.”

Bridget forced another smile, but when she looked away, he could hear her mutter to herself: “Just as eccentric as they say…”

 

The tour lasted too long.

When Bruce got back into his car he let out a long breath and curled his fingers tightly around the steering wheel, staring at the cluster of buildings that made up the asylum. The Joker was locked up in solitary. That was the safest place for him, but it didn’t stop Bruce from worrying. He’d already killed one person. The body count would would rise. 

Sleeping was impossible. For two nights he’d searched all up and down Amusement Mile and found no trace of Quinn, or any of Joker's goons. Placing a few bugs in Crime Alley to keep an ear out was the most productive thing he’d done. He’d stopped a bank robbery, and watched a kid on her way home to make sure she didn't run into any trouble, and he wouldn’t call it a waste of time, but there was a bigger problem looming. 

The quiet after the Joker’s dramatic turn in wouldn’t last. The small fish were just waiting to see if the shark had truly left their waters before letting all hell run loose. All of the people who’d been working for the Joker— if they hadn’t been sent to Arkham or Blackgate because of the Joker’s stunt— would be looking for a new boss. A turf war was the last thing Bruce needed.

Feeling desperate enough to come to Arkham as Bruce Wayne made it feel like the Joker was winning.

Bruce drove home in silence. It was mid afternoon and all he wanted to do was yank his cowl over his head and continue his search; but Batman would not rise until the sun went down.

 

Bruce took one of his laptops and sank into a plush couch in the living room, debating the problem of Arkham. Money would only get him so far. He needed inside information. Needed to see things with his own eyes. Hacking the security cameras could work. Getting his own surveillance devices inside would have been easier, but unfortunately, even Bruce Wayne had his limits. Not even his most dazzling smile would let him inside the Joker's usual cell. He should have put one in there when he'd interrogated the Joker a few days ago, but he hadn't been thinking about it. Even if the thought had crossed his mind, he'd gone straight there after getting his suit, and his utility belt didn't have everything on it all the time.

For now he’d have to try a different tactic; simple research. Bruce combed through his records of every known place the Joker had ever purchased or stolen anything from. Of course the list was still incomplete— the Joker would always have his secrets— but it was very thorough. On it was everything from several different companies the Joker had gotten bomb-making materials, to the gas station where he'd lifted several packs of airheads. Who even ate airheads.

“Perhaps this whole business is more simple than you think.”

Bruce snapped his head up, fingers flinching across the keys and typing a string of nonsense into the url bar. “How long have you been standing there?”

Alfred gave him an unimpressed look, handing him a bottled water. “Long enough. He’s getting to you.”

Bruce scowled, accepting the bottle and draining half, capping it and dropping it on the cushion next to him. “Nothing is simple with the Joker,” he grumbled, instead of responding to Alfred’s observation.

“Did he say anything during your last confrontation? Drop any clues?”

Bruce shook his head. “Just the usual nonsense.”

"Is there no hope that this may be it, sir? You said the Joker's last attempt was sloppy at best. Arkham has increased security since last time, perhaps whatever he's planning..."

Bruce gave him a sharp look. "He still killed twelve people. Don't underestimate him Alfred. The Joker on a bad day is more dangerous than most Gotham criminals on their best."

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

Bruce wasn't praising the Joker. He wasn't. He just knew first hand how dangerous it could be not to take him seriously. And wasn't that ironic, taking a clown _seriously_. 

Once the Joker had broken free of an armored vehicle with four armed officers standing right next to him, all because they'd left him with a bobby pin.

A flash of guilt made Bruce wince— he'd left the Joker with _handcuffs._ Logical thought should have prevented him from doing that. The Joker really did bring out the worst in him.

“Perhaps there’s something you missed. Have you deleted the footage from your last encounter yet?” 

There was an idea. He recorded any reconnaissance work done as Batman, for obvious reasons. He was only human, there were times he’d miss something the first time around. When it came to the Joker, he recorded everything. There were clues woven in the Joker’s long winded speeches that he’d only fish out after watching their interactions for a third time. 

“I’ll give it a look… there’s not a lot to work with though. He didn’t put up much of a fight.” The oddity of that made him frown. Usually the Joker liked to draw out their battles as long as possible. Until Bruce’s muscles were screaming with exertion and he was desperate to get his hands on the slippery clown.

The Joker fought like they were dancing. He ducked, twisted, bent, pirouetted, and stabbed with all the grace of a ballerina on meth. 

Bruce stood, tucking his laptop under his arm and grabbing his bottled water as an afterthought.

The batcave felt chillier than usual, although usually he wore more than a thin shirt and sweatpants. As Bruce stepped across the walkway to his main computer lights flickered on one by one, illuminating his way. Bruce tucked his arms close to his chest as he sat and typed the twenty-character long password into his computer. It was easy to find the files he needed. The Joker’s folder was the largest on his computer, but split into easily navigable sections with everything clearly timestamped.

Bruce fast-forwarded through his infiltration of the building the Joker was hiding in. He pressed play when he glimpsed a flash of purple and green.

_“Ah ah ah, just sit back and ah, watch the show.”_

_“D-don’t hurt me!”_

Bruce forced himself to stare at the woman’s face. He didn't even know her name. If she had children, if she was married. She was dead now. Bruce looked at the Joker, at his smile, the hand on his lap clenching into a fist. 

The Joker looked so fucking happy. Practically giddy. That hostage was there for Batman. The Joker had pulled her between them just to make him angry.

Bruce closed his eyes until the tremors in his body stopped, and told himself it wasn’t his fault that woman was dead. He wouldn’t accept responsibility for the Joker’s actions.

_“Getting a little clingy there Bats, I need some breathing room.”_

The idea of him being the clingy one out of the two of them was laughable. Bruce would have laughed, if he wasn’t violently against laughing at the Joker. He wouldn’t dare give that man the satisfaction. The Joker had destroyed whole blocks just to get his attention. The Joker liked to wax poetic about their unbreakable connection, about the parts of them that were incomplete without the other. The Joker liked to twist his words and actions until Bruce was forced to question himself. 

There was no way of testing the Joker’s sincerity. It was even more likely he was just trying to get in Batman’s head. And that was _the point_ , he _knew_ just how to wriggle underneath Batman's skin.

  _"So impatient! Fine, fine. Either I get to press this button, or the wet blanket dies. Simple, really."_

Pay attention. That detonator had been a decoy. Why?

That was like asking why the Joker did anything. Bruce leaned forward, staring at the oversized screen. There might be something. There had to be something.

 _'You're stealing my spotlight!'_  

Bruce had to look away when the hostage died. 

When he looked back at the screen the Joker was fluttering his eyelashes. The camera shook, and then the Joker’s face was nearly smashed against the screen. His eyes were tennis balls, green and round. The Joker’s happiness at any given moment could be directly correlated to their proximity, and that made Bruce’s stomach curl with nausea. 

The Joker’s voice went breathy as Batman’s hand around his neck squeezed. It made his words sound even filthier. The Joker’s voice was like grinding teeth, less nails and more blades on a chalkboard. 

 _"Three... two... one... boom!"_  

That laughter. Bruce fast-forwarded.

_"...quite remember where I put it. Guess you'll have to frisk me."_

Slow warmth filled Bruce’s ears. He’d left his handcuffs after frisking the Joker, why had he done that? It wasn’t the first time he’d searched the criminal. In comparison to their other encounters the Joker had been rather tame. He'd been handcuffed and face down on a bed. Bruce should probably feel grateful a cavity search joke and gratuitous ass wiggling was all he’d been subjected to. 

The last time he’d had the Joker face down the clown had moaned while he pressed his cheek against the ground. 

_“Isn’t it? Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying all the effort I went through.”_

 He’d moaned and Batman had hesitated because it hadn’t sounded like one of pain.

_“I was actually thinking to myself this seems rather thrown together, for you.”_

Focus.

_“I missed you.”_

Whatever the Joker’s plan, it was working. Bruce couldn’t think straight. He hadn’t slept more than three hours in two days.

 _Taking down my boys, that’s the foreplay. Saving people and playing hero, that’s just the ah, post-coital nap. No, what you do this for, what_ gets you off _, is_ us _. Our little trysts.”_

The Joker was staring up, an insufferable little smile on his face while he drawled with half-lidded eyes. Bruce grit his teeth, insulted by the implication that this was all done for some sick sense of enjoyment. The implication that Bruce _enjoyed_ running after the Joker night after night, chasing him across rooftops and through warehouses, trailing the echo of that laugh. That he lived for the feeling of his fist against Joker’s face, his, his—

Joker was the sick one, not him. The only enjoyment he got out of beating the Joker bloody was knowing the clown would soon be somewhere he couldn’t hurt anyone.

_“When this is over, you’re going back to Arkham where you belong.”_

_“Boring.”_

_"You're just another madman trying to take over Gotham. There is nothing special about 'us', because there is no 'us'. I don’t need you. You mean nothing to me."_

"Sir, I think I've found the solution to your problem."

Bruce jumped and paused playback. “When did you— wait, what do you mean?” Bruce turned the chair around, eyeing Alfred with undisguised surprise. They’d watched the same footage. What could Alfred have seen that he'd missed? And when had Alfred even come down? 

He needed sleep.

Alfred gestured to the frozen image on the screen. Bruce looked over his shoulder. The Joker was on his hands and knees. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning, or doing that exaggerated pout. His face was a blank canvas. An expression Bruce had not seen before. Had not noticed at the time.

“What?” Bruce asked again when he stopped being distracted by the flat line of the Joker’s mouth.

Alfred tilted his head meaningfully. “Really, sir?”

“Alfred, now is not the time to be sassy.”

"The Joker is always insinuating the two of you have some sort of deeper relationship."

"And?"

"And, perhaps your words got to him."

Bruce’s lips twisted up. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve said the same thing to the Joker hundreds of times. He never listens.” It was incredibly frustrating. The Joker said he was ‘playing hard to get’. 

“He’s said it himself. There would be no Joker without ‘the Batman’. Maybe if he believed you were belittling your relationship—“

“ _What_ relationship? Besides, Batman’s still around. Joker wouldn’t just… _stop._ This is just another stunt to get my attention.”

Alfred hummed. “Not that he has to pull any stunts.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? How do you know this, anyway?”

“Master Wayne, you spend far more time than you realize down here watching those videos.”

Bruce was getting irritated with all the implications being thrown around. “I need to _stop_ him Alfred.”

“I am not saying you should employ less effort in catching a madman. Merely pointing out that he sees your obsession with him—“

“I’m not…” 

Alfred pursed his lips, and then looked at the screen, where an image of the Joker sat frozen still. Bruce closed his mouth.

“—as more than a desire to stop him.”

Bruce wrinkled his nose. “He has a girlfriend,” he tried. 

Alfred shook his head. “Master Wayne, do try to treat this with an iota of maturity.”

Bruce could not sit back while Alfred insisted that the Joker had feelings for him. He got enough of that from the clown himself. Even if the Joker had turned himself in because he felt like a jilted lover, there had to be more to it. The Joker wasn’t that docile.

“Just a thought.” Alfred turned, heading towards the elevator. “Eat something soon, won’t you?”

Bruce didn’t want to be dismissive of Alfred’s ideas. But it was bad enough that the Joker called him ‘Batsy darling’. That ‘get your cute little ass over here’ wasn’t an uncommon phrase to hear screamed at him when he was taking too long with the Joker’s goons for their boss’s liking. That a frequent tactic the Joker employed in battle was to distract him with kisses. It never got any easier explaining why there was lipstick all over his cowl.

Bruce ran his hands over his face and shook his head. When he looked up at the screen the Joker was still there, blank-faced.

The videos had helped nothing. He needed to find Quinn. 

 

 

 

**Two months earlier**

_Red and blue lights twinkled in the cold air of Gotham's night, tricking the eye with aesthetics._

_On a stretch of road near Gotham University was a school bus filled with children. Helicopters circling the vehicle had been broadcasting the event for the past half hour._

_The frigid air stung Batman's cheeks, but he was sweating in his kevlar. The night had been quiet before this, and the calm ease with which he'd been patrolling the streets was gone, fury in its place._

_Batman didn't know who they were, or where the Joker had found them at this hour. The Joker had felt like kidnapping a group of elementary schoolers and putting on a big show because it was a Thursday night and that was what the Joker did._

_"Joker, come out of the vehicle with your arms up!" A police officer with a megaphone said in an only slightly shaky voice. The children were banging against the windows, screaming, crying._

_Batman's jaw was set at an angry angle as he watched the spectacle from his spot on a nearby rooftop, attempting to think of a plan. He had no doubt the police had set up snipers by this point, were bringing in heavy weapons. They wouldn't do any good against the Joker, Batman knew. Gordon had to know._

_He had contingency plans for his contingency plans._

_"Now now, officer." The Joker's voice came from everywhere and nowhere via two speakers taped crudely to the side of the bus. They were decorated with festive-looking balloons that had mocking smiley faces drawn in green paint. "Violence never solves anything! And you know how terribly impressionable I am. If I even see the shadow of a weapon pointed at me I'll tell these kiddies a joke that's just to_ die _for."_

_Batman trained his binoculars on the bus, trying to see the Joker through the windows. There weren't too many places he could be hiding in there, not with how many angles the police had set up. The Joker was watching though, somehow. The first attempt to breech the emergency exit had triggered proximity mines, how had he gotten those on the road without anyone noticing?_

_Batman's first instinct was to get closer, but he was loathe to give up this vantage point. Something told him staying put was the right thing to do for the moment. There was something off. They should have seen the Joker by now, standing on top of the bus maybe, gesticulating wildly and mocking the police, lording over the fact that he was untouchable, with hostages under his thumb._

_The obvious explanation slapped him in the face a second later. A second after that a whisper of 'surprise' brushed the side of his cowl. Before he could whip around something looped around his throat and yanked. Batman let out a choked noise as he was pulled back, hands snapping up._

_A weight on his back nearly made him topple over. He struggled to take in air, stumbling, before he jerked his head back. He was satisfied when it made contact with his assailant's nose, even more so when it caused the cord at his neck to loosen. A bout of giggles echoed his actions._

_Batman flipped his attacker off of him, hardly having to guess who it was. The Joker rolled with the toss, gliding smoothly to his feet._

_"Let them go, Joker," Batman growled, not because he thought the Joker would listen, but because it was part of the routine._

_The Joker tilted his head, looking like he might burst with amusement. He held out one long, gloved finger, crooking it just so._

_Batman lunged, fists itching for a taste of that smug face. He knocked the Joker back, down, but couldn't keep him there for long. The Joker hooked a leg around him, flipping their positions far too effortlessly for their size difference. A delighted cackle slid past the Joker's lips, purple in the moonlight. He punched Batman's ribs hard enough to make the vigilante grunt. Once, then twice, then aimed for his face. Batman caught the Joker's wrist in midair, giving it a jerk and letting his fists start their meal._

_The Joker's head snapped back when the hit landed on his sharp jaw, and Batman took the opportunity to switch their positions. He got the clown on his stomach, grabbing a handful of green hair and shoving the Joker's cheek against the rough surface of the roof._

_The Joker moaned._

_Batman’s fingers twitched. He twisted the Joker’s arm behind his back, nearly jerking the limb out of it's socket. Had it been anyone less durable than the Joker, that's exactly what would have happened. "Call this off, Joker. Now."_

_The Joker giggled breathlessly beneath him, quick, sharp pants dropping from his narrow frame. "I knew you'd love this. Everything played out juuust right."_

_Batman yanked his arm further behind his back, bearing down on him with more weight._

_The Joker let out an odd half laugh, half groan."All I want to do is make a few kids_ smile _. You're such a spoilsport Batsy darling, which one of us is the_ real _monster."_

_"You," Batman growled. "You're garbage."_

_"I love it when you talk dirty to me. Ha! Get it?"_

_"Let. Them. Go."_

_The Joker turned his head a fraction. "I'm getting tired of all the talk about the brats, it's a real buzzkill. You're starting to remind me of Harley. You know they'll go on about how this is a terrible tragedy, and how I'm such a terrible person, and in a week or so the good people of Gotham will move on with their lives and the fact that aaall those kids died won't even matter. Let's talk about us."_

_Suddenly Batman's eyes met rotten green. He saw red. Batman yanked the Joker's head up, slamming it back down with a snarl. He would have done it again, but the red was distracting._

_True red, a small circle of bright color in the darkness, highlighting the green of the Joker’s hair._

_The Joker huffed, a second away from giggling._

_Batman yanked him up, holding him against his chest. In the same moment a bullet careened into the roof, right where that red dot had been. The momentum sent the both of them toppling over. Batman rolled them so his back was facing the direction the bullet had come from, his breaths coming out in great heaves, fingers shaking._

_His heart thumped against his rib cage hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that Joker had to feel the impact against his shoulder blades._

_The Joker was so still. Batman squeezed him to make sure he was breathing, make sure he hadn't been too late. For a single second the Joker remained curled against him, not moving,_ was he breathing? _, and Bruce thought to himself_ he's okay he's alive _why was he so scared?_

_Then the Joker stabbed him in the thigh._

_Batman howled, slapping a hand over the wound and shoving the Joker, who was definitely not dead, away. The Joker turned and Batman rose and there was pressure against the side of his head._

_“My dark knight.”_

_Batman blinked hard, regaining his bearings, knowing he had to get the Joker immobile, wondering about the sniper. The Joker couldn’t move, or shouldn’t, but then he was squirming away. The knife wound slowed Batman down just enough to let the clown slip through his fingers._

_Batman watched the Joker flit across the rooftop so fast he might as well have teleported. Batman struggled to his feet and followed. There were no more shots. Abruptly he could hear the Joker’s voice, down below on the street, from the bus speakers._

_“That was definitely a weapon.” The Joker was getting away._

_Batman hesitated. The Joker was not one to go back on those promises. Some half-witted, trigger happy police officer had taken a shot at him and now those kids had minutes to live at the most. He didn’t know if he could risk getting close to the bus. The Joker was right in front of him and he was getting away. The anger was unbearable. It narrowed his field of vision until all he could see were purple tails flapping in the wind._

_Batman bolted towards the stairwell the Joker was targeting. The wound on his thigh burned in protest but he had a large amount of experience ignoring injuries._

_The Joker’s expensive shoes made loud, echoing taps against the stairs._

_The shooter would be calling it in, soon there would be officers rushing the building._

_Batman pushed himself harder. He caught up with the Joker when he was nearly at the bottom of the stairs. His arm flew forward and he clamped his fingers around the back of the Joker’s neck and dragged him back, then pushed forwards and released._

_The Joker tumbled down the rest of the way with a screech of laughter, and landed in a heap._

_Batman descended quickly, cape lapping at his heels. He glared down at the crumpled clown, taking in the way his foot lay at an odd angle. Batman felt not a shred of guilt._

_The Joker pushed himself up until he was leaning against the wall. He hummed out a laugh and looked up at Batman from underneath cheeky green lashes._

_Those kids were in danger._

_Batman dropped to his knees. It was like his fists were starved for the feel of bone against bone. He punched the Joker once, the tremendous sound of the Joker’s head hitting the wall sending a ripple of something up Batman’s spine. It wasn’t enough. He hit the Joker again, then a third time, watched blood pour of the Joker’s nose like water from a faucet._

_“That's it, Bats,” the Joker hissed. His eyes were little half moons, cheeks lifted in glee. “I’m here. No one gets to kill me but you.”_

_“That’s not why I saved you.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“I have one rule.”_

_This made the breathless clown gasp as another laugh tried to squeeze out of his quickly swelling mouth. “Watching Gotham’s finest splatter my brains all over that roof wouldn’t have broken your rule. You’re just angry because_ I’m yours. _” The Joker reached up, curling his hands around Batman’s shoulders, squeezing tight enough to feel through his suit._

_“You’re delusional.”_

_“Oh shh, shh shh… I understand.”_

_He was supposed to believe that everyone could be saved, could be better. The Joker brought out the worst in him. He didn’t think the man could ever be anything but the agent of chaos that he was. He didn't even think there was something to fix. It felt like if they peeled back the Joker’s layers expecting a normal human being instead there would be nothing underneath but blood and never-ending laughter. “You don’t understand anything. You’re a sick man who needs help.”_

_The Joker narrowed his eyes, smile dropping to an exaggerated frown._

_Bruce sucked in a breath, ripping his eyes away from lipstick and skin to glare at slivers of green and black. “If you do anything to those kids—"_

_Laughter exploded from that pout and shook it upside down, mouth twisting into an obscene shape. Batman lifted both hands and grabbed the Joker’s throat and squeezed. He barely realized what he was doing until the action was complete. He didn’t feel like himself._

_Joker made a few choking noises, head lolling back._

_Batman eased up on the pressure minutely._

_“_ I _haven’t done anything to them,” the Joker insisted, gasping. He blinked up at Batman with hooded eyes and an infuriating grin. “Technically, the police killed them. I warned them, but did anyone listen? N—“_

_Batman reared back and propelled his fist into the Joker’s stomach._

_It shut him up and made him double over. His head bounced off Batman’s shoulder then rested there._

_He could feel the Joker’s quick breaths from where his knuckles rested against the clown’s abdomen._

_“So aggressive! And here I thought you didn’t like me anymore.”_

_Batman shoved the Joker flat against the wall, stomach churning with a sick sense of foreboding. His fingers curled in the Joker’s lapels. They were still shaking. It was distracting._

_“Oh Bats,” the Joker breathed, hands coming up to rest on the one’s holding him up. “How does it feel, being here_ playing _with me while children die?”_

_Batman yanked him up, off his feet._

_The Joker beamed. “Show me, Bats,” he murmured, thumbs tracing suggestive patterns over Batman’s wrists and thumbs._

_He felt only the slightest of pressure, but it made Batman’s ears burn with anger nonetheless._

_“Show me.”_

_Batman jerked the Joker forward and back, making his head snap against the wall._

_The Joker slumped in his hold._

_Batman stood there for several seconds, breathing heavy, supporting the Joker’s weight. Usually when their fights ended, when he inevitably won and sent the clown back to Arkham, or ran him off, he felt some sort of satisfaction._

_He just couldn’t stop shaking._

_Footsteps reached his ears, and Batman sat the Joker down, cuffing his hands behind his back and leaving him there for the police to find. Batman did not want to stick around for that. He had to see if the children were all right. Even though he knew they weren’t._

_Batman moved back up the stairs, crossed the roof, stood at the edge, and looked down._

_Suddenly the world regained color, percussion, clarity. It felt like he’d been seeing in nothing but green and white. Down below people were shouting. The sirens nearly deafened his suddenly hypersensitive ears._

_Through the windows of the bus, Batman could see a familiar verdant gas curling against the glass. He could make out the figures inside, laughing, no doubt gasping, crying, frightened, desperate._

_They’d be dead in seconds. With smiles on their faces._

 

_“Who fired?”_

_Batman was in the commissioner’s office an hour later. Gordon looked haggard. All the officers did. A bus filled with twenty-four children had slowly filled with Joker toxin and killed every single one of them. The city was in outrage. Batman was livid._

_“He had his orders. No one was supposed to fire unless they had explicit permission.” Gordon pushed a hand through his hair, then down his face, knocking his glass askew. “Officer Di… he was just trying to help.”_

_Batman barely held back a growl. “The Joker was just waiting for an excuse to release the gas.”_

_Gordon snapped his head up. Batman did not mean to accuse any of Gordon’s officers, or the man himself, but he was so angry._

_“What would you have done?"_

_Batman stared and Gordon stared back. “I could have stopped him.”_

_“You didn’t.”_

_That stung, but Batman supposed he deserved it. If he hadn’t saved the Joker’s life he’d be dead and those children might still be alive. The Joker would be dead but those children might still be alive. Batman swallowed. Joker would be dead._

_He couldn’t decide what the right thing to do would have been._

_“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.” Gordon fell down in his chair. He looked up, started to say something, then stopped. He frowned, and then tapped the side of his head. “You’ve got a little… your cowl.”_

_Batman frowned. “Tell your officers next time, leave the Joker to me.”_

_“…All right.”_

_When Batman got back to the cave, he tugged off his cowl, fingers pressing hard into the black material. The hole or crack he’d feared was nowhere to be found. The only thing out of the ordinary was a blatant lipstick kiss. He barely resisted the urge to throw the cowl on the ground._

_Next time._

_The next time he saw that freak— and he knew there would be a next time— he was going to end that sort of nonsense once and for all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title credit to Attila 12  
> And thank you to him for being my beta!


	4. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy this one took me forever. But we are moving right along down our previously scheduled outline as planned. 
> 
> Beta'd by Atilla 12

****Perched on a ledge on the outskirts of the Bowery, Batman had the distinct feeling that he was running out of time. The Joker rarely stayed in Arkham longer than a month. Considering he'd put himself inside this time, Batman figured the Clown Prince of Crime would spring his trap within a week.

Batman cycled through the audio feeds coming from the bugs he'd placed in and around Crime Alley with no luck. The night was quiet. Again. No chatter on the Joker or what he was planning, no sign of Harley, not even a bank robbery. He wasn't bored. Just restless.

"...project?"

"Yeah, I guess. I can't believe we're working for Scarecrow now."

Batman leaned in despite knowing doing so would have no actual effect on the volume of the conversation. This was the first promising thing he'd heard after three hours of surveillance. 

"Penguin got himself locked up. You feel like joining Two-Face and burning half of your clothes for that weirdo?"

Without the Joker around they were like orphans looking for a new parent. He was surprised more hadn't stayed to work for Harley. ...No, he wasn't. 

"Guess not. You think the boss really turned himself in?"

"I think that clown has something up his sleeve."

Batman didn't expect the Joker to monologue his plans to his hired muscle, but he'd been hoping for more than a vague, "I think he has something up his sleeve."

"Well yeah, but he coulda _warned_ us. Ricky was on that job with him, he's in Blackgate now."

"Joker will spring him when he's done with whatever he's doing."

"Ha, that's almost as bad as one of _his_ jokes."

"Shh, here he comes."

He needed to get closer. Batman got a lock on the bug, standing from his position and diving into the night, spreading his cape behind him so he could glide. 

Despite how badly he wanted to get the men somewhere and interrogate them, make sure they really had no idea what the Joker was up to, he knew it would be wiser to just observe. If Crane was making a move then he should keep an eye out for that too— especially if Joker's old crew was working for him now. 

By the time Batman found a good vantage point of the hidden off place, whatever was going down was well under way. 

"You do that, you're in." The voice didn't sound familiar, so Batman could only assume it was the 'he' spoken of.

"That's bullshit," one of the men from the audio feed whined. Batman couldn't see any faces, but he was the only one wearing a hat. "Did the others have to do this?"

"Everyone is doing their part. The Doctor needs to know you can be trusted."

Before another word could be said, the night exploded. The boom was far enough away for Batman to know no one in the immediate vicinity was in danger, but when he turned he could see smoke rising up in the distance. In the direction of Amusement Mile. 

"What was that?"

"Who cares?"

Batman wasted no time pulling out his grappling hook, darting across the roof. He could worry about what Crane was planning later. 

Batman glided from rooftop to rooftop, the feeling that he knew who was responsible rising with every inch closer he got towards the plume of smoke billowing up towards the sky. 

It came from a warehouse near the Rogers Yacht Basin. Switching the view mode on his cowl didn't immediately show potential hostages, but he didn't let his guard down. Batman swung down to the ground a safe distance away from the burning building, watching the flames lick the sky. 

His feet had barely kissed the ground when a loud cry to his left drew his attention. A twisty, bendy woman came somersaulting towards him, and Batman nearly smiled. 

Harleen Quinzel's blonde pigtails bobbed and pinwheeled around as she launched herself in a flying kick. He jumped back, avoiding the sweep of her long, checkered-tight covered leg. In his next movement he caught her by her arm and used her own momentum to throw her forward.

Harley caught herself on her hands, jumping to her feet. When she next turned it was to whip a knife at him. He blocked it with one of his gauntlets, opening his mouth to tell her to stand down, even though he knew she wasn't going to listen.

She beat him to it. "All right you found me, Bat-brain. Go easy on the cuffs m'kay? I've got delicate wrists."

Practiced words fell off his tongue, and though Batman remained posed and ready for a fight, confusion stuffed silence down his throat for a short while. "I... what?"

Harley straightened, popping her hip out dramatically to one side. 

Batman's eyes swung back and forth like a metronome between her and the burning warehouse. She'd been looking for a fight. Of course, the fact that she'd been waiting and ready to attack him should have made that obvious. He'd been too caught up in the triumph at finally smoking her out to notice she'd been the one doing the smoking.

"You're supposed to be taking me to Arkham now," she sang impatiently, and finally Batman straightened.

"You're starting to sound like the Joker." This had to be about him. Batman couldn't remember a time he'd been put away that she'd actively tried to get into Arkham with him though. Usually, Harley would just try to get revenge on him in the most ridiculous way possible, which Batman could understand. "If you wanted to go to Arkham, you don't need my help."

Harley huffed out a laugh, her smile looking a little manic. "No, but then I wouldn't get to do this." She came at him again, movements fluid and smooth and predictable. Frustrated whines leaked from her mouth as he dodged two kicks and a punch before wrestling her to the ground. 

"Not fair! I want at least one good hit in!"

Batman handcuffed her, reminded himself to get another spare pair. He was sure the ones he'd left with the Joker had been confiscated by Arkham. It would be far too embarrassing to waltz in and ask for them back.

With Quinn subdued, though still complaining, Batman finally focused on his mission. "What is the Joker planning?"

"You're not nearly as smart as my Puddin' gives you credit for."

Batman tried not to be offended by that.

Harley laughed. Joker's laugh could be infuriating, frightening, mocking, contagious. Harley's was just annoying.

"If you're thinking of breaking out the Joker, think again. They're not going to let you share a padded cell."

"You worry less about _me_ , and more about what Mr. J's gonna do to you when he gets out of that shithole." She squirmed violently for a second, and Batman pressed a hand to her back until she settled down. 

"And what is he going to do to me?" He could have guessed Joker's plan revolved around him.

"If I have it my way, he'll finally put you out of your misery Batman! Now let me up, the ground is hard."

Were it anyone else, he'd leave her tied up somewhere and inform the police; but Harley was his only possible lead on the Joker's plan, and he couldn't give up seeing what she knew so soon. As requested he yanked her to her feet, not bothering to be gentle. Selena had taught him the hard way what happened when he tried to go easy on someone because they were a woman. 

The tumbler was still in the Bowery, which meant dragging Harley all the way back. Fortunately she was being cooperative. He kept one hand on her arm and one eye on her hands, just in case she tried to get out of the cuffs.

"Watch how you handle the merchandise," she complained. "My skin is for _Puddin'_ to bruise."

Batman wrinkled his nose and let out a weary sigh. "You used to be a psychiatrist. You of all people should know how unhealthy your 'relationship' with him is." Harleen Quinzel was a truly unfortunate case. A testimony to just how dangerous Joker could be with only words.

"You're one to talk, Bat-bran!"

Batman yanked her along a little harder. He got nothing out of her but insults the rest of the way to the tumbler. 

From their location, it wasn't a long ride to Arkham— especially with the tumbler's speed. As the compound came into view, Harley let out an elated sigh. 

"As soon as I get Mr. J outta there, everything's gonna be different. We'll finally have time for J Junior."

The very thought of little Joker's running around made Batman shudder. The Joker shouldn't procreate with anybody. The Joker shouldn't even have sex. He knew Harley and the Joker were 'dating', or whatever you could call their relationship, but the idea of them being _intimate_ made him want to gag. 

"Wouldn't it be so cute!" Harley squealed. "We'll hold all the principal's in Gotham hostage so our baby can go wherever they want."

"The Joker is never going to love you, Harley."

Harley laughed again. "That's easy for you to say. You get him maybe one night out of the month. He's with me _every day._ Face it  _Bats._ You're just the other woman."

Batman nearly forgot to brake. " _What_?"

"You heard me."

He had. He wasn't going to dignify it with a response. It didn't even make sense.

When he walked through the doors of Arkham with Harley in hand, despite not having any new information about Joker's plan, he was still glad to be rid of her. "Be careful," he warned the guards as they pulled her off down the corridor, "she intends to try and escape."

A nearby orderly snorted. "Yeah, her and everyone else in this place."

Warden Sharp wasn't there to greet him this time, but Dr. Young was. Granted, she was speaking to someone at the reception desk, and had very little interest in him, but he needed to try all possible routes on the blank map Joker had laid out for him. "Doctor. I want to talk to you about the Joker. Has he been acting any different lately? I believe he'll be mobilizing soon."

Dr. Young looked at him over her shoulder, as if she hadn't noticed the man in a batsuit and cape walk in. "Arkham is more than equipped to keep the Joker locked up," she said a little sharply. "Regardless, he's not my patient anymore. Even if he was, I couldn't discuss him with you."

"Who is his new doctor then?"

Young hesitated, sliding a clipboard bursting with papers off the counter and into her arms. "A new transfer in from Metropolis, Dr. Peralta." Her eyes narrowed, and her next words seemed to be for herself. "It's a shame. I really think I was getting through to him."

And Batman really thought that was exactly what Joker wanted her to think. “I want to speak with the Joker. Everyone in the asylum could be in danger.”

“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. Visiting hours and rules aside, he is in solitary confinement.”

Batman barely stopped himself from asking, ‘still?’ 

The doctor must have seen something on his face. A twitch in his brow. She stood ruler straight, pursing her lips. “We know what is best for our patients. Tomorrow he will be released and start his new therapy, with his new doctor.” Young sounded irritated. Whether at him, or the new doctor, Batman wasn’t sure. 

He flattened out his expression. “I didn’t mean to—“

“I think it’s time for you to go, Batman.”

On his way out, a guard with dark hair and a scar on his left ear so kindly stepped in line to escort him. The guard’s posture was relaxed, considering his position. 

“Don’t worry about the Joker. We’re taking _real_ good care of him.” The scarred guard smirked, like they were both in on the same joke. “The problem with the Joker is, when you try and beat some sense into him all he does is laugh. You gotta find other ways to make him squeal.”

Maybe the guard thought because of how often he fought the Joker, he would enjoy hearing this. Batman’s fingers curled towards his palms. “Do you make a habit out of beating defenseless inmates?” 

“He ain’t defenseless. He’s killed four of my friends.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Bruce Wayne would still be having a word with the Arkham board, on the matter of excessive force.

When Batman walked out of the asylum he didn’t look back, but the thought wouldn’t leave his head. What the guards did to the Joker to make him squeal.

He felt nauseous.

 

When Bruce Wayne got home, he took a long shower and pulled on a soft gray robe. It was past three in the morning, but he wasn’t ready to sleep yet. Instead he sat at his desk and started doing research on Arkham’s newest doctor.

His name was Franklin Peralta. Before long he had the man’s career history, research papers, interviews, and facebook page open in several different tabs. He couldn’t focus on any of them. His mind was back at the asylum. He’d walked out with his tongue feeling thick and numb and unable to produce words.

He should have said something to the guard. Told him to stop whatever he was doing. Threaten him if necessary. 

The asylum did not have the right to treat patients as less than human beings. Even the ones that seemed more monster than person. 

Batman believed in justice. He would have been disturbed by the guard’s words no matter who the patient was.

 _You’re just angry because I’m_ yours.

But he wasn’t the Joker’s _dark knight._  

He’d wanted to break that guard’s knee caps.

He would never.

He should have said something.

Bruce took in a deep breath and focused on the information in front of him.

Franklin Peralta was forty-eight. He’d written three books on psychology, and one focusing specifically on psychopaths. The past two years he’d been busy researching for his next book. Now he was working at Arkham. Perhaps for the chance to study a particularly interesting psychopath.

Bruce’s finger paused over the trackpad. What were the odds that the Joker’s plan involved the random transfer of a doctor from Metropolis? This wasn’t necessary. What some big shot doctor wanted to do with his new practice was hardly any concern of Bruce Wayne. He should be putting his efforts towards hacking Arkham’s security cameras.

The Joker getting a new doctor was a good thing. Clearly none of the old ones had done any good.

Bruce closed his laptop a little harder than necessary. 

The night had been nothing but a heap of dead ends. He was so tired. He couldn’t remember how long he’d slept the night before. Had he slept?

Bruce slipped into bed, head growing heavier the further he pulled up the covers. He’d rest for a few hours. That was all he could allow.

 

 

It was suspiciously bright outside. Bruce yawned, tried and failed to sit up, then yawned again. The clock read ten. Bruce pulled himself up with more success, but something made him look back at the clock. 

The date. It was wrong. 

Bruce reached for his phone in a panic, but before he could call Alfred the butler slipped into the room.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

“You let me sleep a whole day?”

“Frankly sir, I’m surprised you didn’t sleep longer.”

“Alfred—“

“You may be a superhero, but you’re not superhuman.” Alfred carried a plate of waffles and eggs and bacon and it smelled like all the best parts of every meal Bruce had ever eaten. 

Bruce laid back, pressing a hand to his stomach as it grumbled. “Alfred, I can’t afford to—“

“What do you think is more efficient? An exhausted man staying up at all hours of the night accomplishing little, or a well-rested man operating at peak efficiency?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, lips twisting. “Is interrupting me your new hobby? I have to say, I prefer you collecting shot glasses.”

“Not that I ever have any opportunity to use them.” Alfred set the tray on the bed.

Somewhere, Bruce knew Alfred was right. He did feel better, less exhausted. He’d been letting the Joker get in his head.

It occurred to him a moment later that maybe that was the plan all along.

 

He went into Wayne Enterprises that day to check on how things were going, make an appearance. 

Bruce had forgotten that sleep was a necessary biological function. When he got home, hacking into Arkham’s system was  so much easier being in full control of all his facilities. All he needed was the serial number from the camera in Joker’s cell and he’d be able to get a surveillance feed on the villain directly to the batcave.

An opportunity would come.

Batman stayed in per Alfred’s request. Bruce admitted to himself that maybe he’d been overdoing it, in his quest to foil the Joker’s plan.

The next night he was back in his suit, doing his usual rounds. He was too close to the Joker thing. He needed to take a step back from all the dead ends he’d stumbled into. Even if it made his skin itch, his head twitch towards every shadow and every noise, swearing he saw a flash of green.

It was a coincidence that he was nearby when the alarm went off. 

It blared loud for five seconds and then suddenly cut off. It was midnight on a Tuesday and that felt more suspicious than if it had just continued to ring.

Batman yanked his grappling hook off his belt, using the ledge of the building as an anchoring point. It was a drugstore, and Batman could tell just from looking whoever was inside hadn’t used the front door. No signs of forced entry.

Checking the back revealed a door propped open. They had forethought in disabling the alarm, but their incompetence was shown by the fact it had rung in the first place. Batman slid silently inside, cape folding around him as he crouched down. Immediately, he could hear whispers.

A few adjustments on his cowl, and they grew a little clearer.

“...feel right.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t wait to try this stuff out.”

“Don’t point that at me, man.”

Two males. There was a chance they were working for someone bigger. Maybe someone who had information on the Joker.

No— this wasn’t about the Joker.

A crunch rang out in the silence. Batman looked down, wincing upon seeing his boot planted firmly in a pile of spilled cereal. He needed to focus. 

“You hear that?”

“I cut off the alarm.”

“Someone still could have called the cops, dummy, we gotta hurry.”

“You don’t think it’s...”

“Oh, please. What are the odds?”

Amusement tugged at Batman’s lips. He debated jumping out with a one-liner, but the lingering thoughts of the Joker in his head squashed that idea. The Joker was always entirely too pleased during their banter.

This wasn’t about the Joker. Focus.

The two thieves were near the back of the store, hidden behind shelves in the pharmacy. As Batman creeped up behind them, he could see them stuffing bottle upon bottle into plastic grocery bags. Standing together as they were it would be eash to take them out. So he straightened, grabbing both of their heads and smashing them together.

The thieves were tough, or the black ski masks they wore were more protection than Batman had assumed, because the thieves staggered away, but didn’t go down. The taller of the two reached for something in his pocket, and Batman grabbed his wrist, snapping it with one quick action, then slamming him against the shelf.

Whatever the taller had been grabbing for slipped out and rolled away on the floor. His partner scrambled for it, and though Batman got to him in plenty of time he wasn’t expecting the gas that suddenly shot out from the object.

Batman had just enough time to redirect the man’s arm. The yellow cloud went straight into the face of the broken-wristed thief, who screamed in protest and stumbled a few steps away only to topple over.

Him incapacitated, Batman kneed the thief who’d sprayed the gas in the stomach, sending him skidding back across the floor. Batman went with him, resting one foot on his hand. “What was that?”

The thief had yet to catch his breath, short gasps leaking from his mouth. “I... I don’t... know.”

Batman stepped down harder on his hand, making him start to struggle. “ _What was that?_ ”

A scream exploded in the room, loud enough to make Batman flinch, and the thief curse. 

The broken-wristed man was writhing across the floor, chest twitching up and down far too rapidly to be using any of the air it was taking in. “Agghghhhhhhh— god, no... PLEASE no!”

“Fuck.” The thief tried to tug his hand out from underneath Batman’s boot. Batman stepped down harder. “Fuck! The boss gave it to me! I don’t know what it does... just supposed to buy us time if the cops showed up...”

The screams of the broken-wristed man grew increasingly louder, until he was nothing but a mess of incoherent sobs. 

It was easy to guess who ‘the boss’ was. They had to be stealing drugs for Crane. Fear was the Scarecrow’s MO, and that man was obviously terrified out of his mind. 

Batman tied the two thieves up so that the one who’d gotten a dose of Scarecrow’s fear gas wouldn’t hurt himself as he convulsed. Then he picked up the discarded canister, turning it over in his hand. 

White, nondescript. With any luck, there would be enough stuff left inside to analyze it, maybe start working up an antidote. If this was a new strain of Dr. Crane’s fear gas, he wanted to be prepared. 

After calling the police and letting them know an ambulance would be necessary, he stepped back into the night.

It wasn’t that late. He still had time to try and find out what exactly Crane was planning,

That idea was immediately tossed out of his head when he looked up and saw the bat signal hovering pale against the clouds. 

Crane could wait.

It occurred to Batman as he grappled away, that this was the first time he’d seen the signal since the new commissioner had taken over. So far, it seemed like Barbara Gordon had been keeping up good on her promise to make the police force better without his help. Her new slogan, ‘It takes a village, not a Batman’, was all over the media.

It didn’t matter to him. Police cooperation was nice, but he would keep doing what he did as long as Gotham needed him.

The top of the GCPD was dark and lonely. The new Commissioner Gordon was waiting for him with her arms folded tightly across her chest, open vest doing nothing to conceal her gun. It was a sharp contrast to how he’d last seen her, in a floor length purple gown. Her badge seemed to glint on her hip even in the night. 

“We have a situation... Batman.” 

Despite how she stood tall and spoke in a strong, clear voice, her wandering eyes and furrowed brow gave away the fact that she didn’t quite know what to do with him. Almost as if she hadn’t really been expecting him to come.

“Several inmates have been released from their cells in Arkham Asylum, it’s pandemonium in there. We’ve got the island locked down but no one can get inside.”

Quinzel. Batman was at once surprised and not that she’d struck so soon. He’d been hoping the Arkham staff could get a handle on it, considering how often they had to deal with this particular patient. But then, she was a lot smarter than she looked, and Joker’s thugs would obey her orders as well.

“I’ll take care of it.” Batman turned, but a ‘wait’ from the commissioner made him pause.

“I’m coming with you.”

“I work better alone.” He looked over his shoulder, and found her wearing an expression of tested patience, her brow furrowed and lips pulled down.

“This is a job for the GCPD. I believe you can do some good Batman, but this is a high stakes situation.” She turned around to flip off the signal.

Batman was off the roof before she turned back. 

The new commissioner clearly didn’t quite understand their relationship. He wasn’t there to take orders. If he believed the GCPD could clean up the city as they were he wouldn’t have taken up the cape and cowl in the first place.

Maybe Barbara Gordon could make a difference, but she’d have to prove that first.

 

The asylum was as grandiose and dreary as always. It was indeed locked down tight with a perimeter of officers around Arkham West who were probably sick and tired of all the security breeches from the place. Everyone was trying to get into the Penitentiary. He could see Quincy Sharp standing at the forefront shouting orders and generally trying to look like the most important person in the crowd.

Batman was positive the released inmates were only a distraction to allow Harley time to get to the Joker undetected, so he would worry about them last. With some creative use of his grappling hook and line launcher, it was easy to slip past the police without notice.

He didn’t want them mentioning his appearance to the new commissioner when she arrived, as he was sure she would.

The taste of chaos was in the air. Crawling through the vents, he could see the inmates through the grates running free, screaming, unsure what to do with themselves. It didn’t even seem like they were trying to escape. There was no sign of the guards yet.

The front door had been barricaded, which explained why the police were having such a hard time getting inside. Debating over whether to take down the barricade now or later took seconds— he couldn’t let the Joker get free. Or Harley.

Batman made his way deeper into the Penitentiary, hiding behind corners, sneaking through vents, and grappling from vantage point to vantage point until he got to the maximum security ward.

The guards weren’t hard to spot after arriving. They’d all been herded into a large cell that had a room all of its own, banging against the walls and shouting expletives. Batman recognized it as the place Pamela Isley was usually kept. Which meant ‘Poison Ivy’ had been let loose. 

“Batman!” One guard shouted upon spotting him, waving him over. “Please, let us out!” Freedom close at hand the guards started to grow a little rowdier, trying to push their way towards the door.

“Calm down, I’ll get you out of there.” Batman walked around to the door, checking the lock. Impatience made his teeth grind and his fingers twitch. He tugged the cryptographic sequencer from his utility belt. Getting the right frequency never seemed to take so long.

The guards poured from the doors once they slid open, several gathering around him. “Thanks, Batman. We—“

“I’m going to the Joker’s cell. Harleen Quinzel is definitely behind this, and that will be her target.”

“Oh, er, right, of course.” The guard nodded, giving an awkward salute. “We’ll take care of the other inmates.”

Batman was heading off down the corridor before the man had even finished his sentence. He was getting close, he could tell. Maybe this had been the Joker’s plan, he and Harley turned themselves in, together somehow carrying two halves of something that could wreak havoc. 

He quickened his pace. 

Oddly enough, the maximum security ward was quiet. Batman knew the way to the Joker’s usual cell by heart, and didn’t see any more released inmates or guards along the way. The closer he got the hotter his blood grew, until it was boiling, his face feeling hot underneath the cowl. So far there were no explosions, no laughing gas, no bodies, no blood, but that was only for now. When the Joker was involved nothing ended easy. 

He was so close.

When he had the Joker’s cell in his sights he could hear voices. The door was open.

“But, Mr. J!” Harley. As expected. Her high pitched whine was just as irritating as always. “Do you know what I had to do to swing this?”

“Well, Monkey Face—“

“Don’t ‘Monkey Face’ me! C’mon, Puddin’.” Harley’s voice slipped into a lower tone, and Batman grimaced at the idea of Harley attempting to use her ‘feminine wiles’ on the Joker. “You know no one will ever love you like I do.”

“Yes, Harley, but you’re pathetic.” 

Harley made a strange sound between a squeak and a growl, and then there was a thudding noise. Abruptly, spine-chilling laughter echoed through the halls. A chill zigzagged down Batman’s spine, and he surged into motion.

When the Joker and Harley came in sight, Batman’s eyes zeroed in on the clown. He was sitting on the bed with his knees splayed out to either side, feet pressed together like a toddler. His lips looked puffy. A high stakes escape plan and the two chose that time to swap spit. Disgusting. 

It was infuriating that Joker didn’t even look surprised to see him. One side of his less red than usual mouth curled up, and he held out his arms like he was expecting a hug. “Bats, you made it!”

Harley squealed, baring her teeth. “Don’t you know it’s rude not to knock before entering a lady’s room?” She brandished a key card like it was a weapon.

“This isn’t your room, and the Joker’s no lady.”

The Joker howled with laughter, slapping his knee. “He’s got you there, Harley!”

Harley stuck her tongue out at Batman. Her blonde hair looked strange hanging about her shoulders, a little greasy. “We can take him!”

The Joker cocked his head too far to the side. “Now there’s a threesome I could get behind. Or in between, I’m not picky.”

He certainly hadn’t missed the Joker’s horrible sense of humor. Batman couldn’t help glowering at him. It was a mistake. Harley lunged at him in the moment his attention was distracted, whirling around and jamming her foot into his chest. 

He stumbled a step back, and ducked her next attack, surging up to jab his elbow into her head. 

She fell forward, onto her hands and knees. “Ow!” Harley flipped around with vicious intent, and he might have subdued her if it weren’t for the sudden weight on his back. Legs came around him and an arm circled his neck.

Batman swayed, briefly losing his balance. He grunted as the Joker started to choke him with the crook of his elbow, soft giggles teasing ears hidden underneath the cowl. Batman reached up to try and ease the pressure on his throat, and Harley jabbed him in the jaw. 

She was a slight thing, but strong. Pain flew across the bone, and Batman’s retaliation was disabled by the Joker stealing more of his air. 

Batman staggered back, then further, soon reaching the back wall in the small cell. He rammed the Joker back against it as hard as he could, then again. It took three times before the grip around him loosened. The Joker had a small frame for a man but his weight was still cumbersome. It would have been much easier to injure him if the walls were made of concrete instead of the special, ‘Joker-proof’ padding. When they’d tried putting him in a regular cell, he’d somehow gotten into the canvas covered walls and used the cork crumbs to choke a guard to death.

“You get him Mr. J! I’ll be back for you!”

The emotion in Harley’s voice was thick enough to make Batman roll his eyes. He yanked at the Joker’s arm, finally managing to pull it away and taking a big gulp of air. The Joker was still holding on to him like a baby monkey, long legs locked tight around Batman’s hips. All he could do was watch as Harley darted away. He grit his teeth, reaching back to yank at the Joker’s hair until he heard a yelp. 

He pushed at the Joker’s legs, tugging at slender ankles and bashing his fists against knobby knees until finally he was released with a few breathless cackles. 

Batman whirled around, pinning the Joker to the wall with one hand at his throat. “Was this your plan? Because if so, I’m disappointed.” Harley had gotten away, but aside from that Batman couldn’t see what the grand scheme was.

This close, Batman could see dark circles under the Joker’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if they were a result of tiredness or if he was mistaking the ever present darkness from the chemicals for something more than what it was.

The Joker laughed, squirmed, and Batman pressed him harder against the wall. “Still trying to figure it out, eh?”

“I will, Joker, eventually.”

“Hoo boy, you’ve gotta work on your material, the audience is falling asleep here.” Joker faked a yawn. 

His blood had been boiling before, but now it felt like he would simply turn to steam. He felt strangely alert, focused, like he’d spent a month asleep and had only just woken up fully refreshed. He squeezed the Joker’s throat, and watched green eyelashes flutter.

The Joker smirked. “Now, now, there’s no need to assault a harmless asylum patient in his cell, is there?”

“You’re not harmless.”

“Ahaha!” The Joker grinned, showing off freakishly straight, white teeth. “You got me again, Batman!” The Joker jammed his foot into Batman’s knee.

Despite the padding, it was uncomfortable enough to make him grunt, making him shift back. Enough to give the Joker room to get free from the wall.

The door was wide open. 

Instead of leaving though, the Joker cracked his neck, then his knuckles, rolled his shoulders. He aimed a grin at Batman and curled his hands into fists, winding his arm like a bully in a prohibition era movie and wiggling narrow hips. “Come on then. Before your police friends make their way down here.”

Joker swung, and Batman sidestepped the attack, throwing out his own fist and catching Joker in the jaw. The clown kneed him in the stomach, and Batman narrowly avoided the following uppercut to the chin, grabbing the Joker’s wrist and squeezing.

Somehow the Joker twisted away from him. The next moment a blow came to the back of his knee. He faltered and the Joker tackled him down, raining blows down upon his head before he managed to fend the Joker off with a blind swing. Opening achieved Batman surged up, socking the Joker in the solar plexus and then the jaw, in the same place as before. 

Batman shoved him back until he had him pinned against the wall again.

One of the Joker’s legs rose in a feeble attempt to fend him off, thigh rubbing against Batman’s hip. Batman grabbed the Joker’s wrists and moved in closer, making it impossible for any more kicks to catch him off guard. 

They were chest to chest and panting. The Joker’s wild eyes twirled towards the ceiling, and Batman snarled, pressing the Joker’s wrists into the wall until that gaze focused on him again. 

The Joker clicked his tongue. He moved his leg again, curling it around Batman in a motion that was decidedly more suggestive than his earlier attack. “So much for the ‘world's greatest detective.’” His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, like he was sharing a grand secret. He still looked so fucking amused.

“I’m not going to let you escape, Joker.” 

“Ooh.” The Joker wiggled his fingers, making the muscles in his wrists strain against Batman’s hands in tiny caresses. “Then why don’t you walk out the door and let it lock behind you?”

“I’m interrogating you.” The response was a beat too slow, and the Joker noticed. 

“So where are all the, ah, questions?” 

Batman hated the cadence of his voice.

The Joker dissolved into a fit of giggles, then settled down to quiet snickers when Batman ground his boot into the Joker’s toes. “Where—“

Joker chose that moment to surge forward and kiss him on the mouth.

Batman sputtered.

The Joker went limp in his hold as laughter overtook him, made him quake against Batman. The suit absorbed most of the sensation but what Batman could feel filled him with irritation. Joker’s head fell against his shoulder and it was familiar. 

Batman was determined to pretend it hadn’t happened. He didn’t want the clown thinking he was getting to him. His lips felt like they were on fire.

Finally the Joker settled, laying his head against the wall. “If you’re done with your  _interrogation_  I’d like to get back to my regularly scheduled boredom. Unless you’re volunteering to entertain me.” He waggled his eyebrows in such an over-exaggerated fashion that Batman snorted. 

Even so, the Joker was still in his cell, and it would be more prudent to focus on the patients that were running free. 

He shoved the other back, moving away slowly. He waited for the Joker to make a move, but after Batman was no longer holding him up he just slid back to the bed, crossing his legs and bouncing. 

“Bye bye Batman, don’t be a stranger!”

Batman swooped out without a response and made sure the door was securely closed behind him.

Even if he hadn’t figured out anything new, it was a success. He’d gotten the serial number from the camera. He’d figure out what the Joker was planning if he had to watch him for a full twenty-four hours.


	5. Winning is Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman watches the Joker, and learns more and less than what he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last scene from the movie The Hoarder (spoilers). Does this make this fic a crossover now?

  
The Joker was laying on the bed with his hands behind his head and his ankles crossed. In the low quality of the video feed his Arkham whites swallowed up his bone-pale skin.

For hours that was all he did. Interspersed with the occasional scratch at his hair, or switching which ankle was on top of the other. That was the extent of the Clown Prince of Crime’s actions. Batman was not used to seeing him so still. The Joker was like a wax figure.

No, like an animatronic with no one to perform for. Waiting for someone to come near so he could activate, become animated again.

The longer Batman watched the scene the more he felt his stomach churn with something he couldn’t name. The subdued behavior could be because of whatever drugs they’d prescribed him, if drugs even worked on him anymore. Batman was aware of that. It was uncomfortable to see someone with so much life contained to one small square of space.

_He deserves it._

Suddenly the Joker smiled. He jumped up, then continued bouncing on the mattress for several long seconds before hopping off the bed and transitioning so smoothly into pacing it seemed like he walked on air for a few moments. Batman leaned closer to the camera even though there was no sound.

This was more like what he was used to. Batman could envision the Joker now in one of his purple suits, perfectly-tailored fabric following grandiose motions and letting him move like a clumsy gymnast. Each time they saw each other the Joker had a pristine suit, despite the fact that most of the time they got ruined in their fights.

Trying to figure out where he bought them from (it should have been easy, purple suits weren’t exactly common, particularly in Gotham now) had proven pointless year after year. Batman’s efforts, returning to the scenes of their battles and taking what little he could find, had left him with enough scraps of the Joker’s clothing to create a full outfit himself, all the way down to the spats.

After five minutes of pacing the Joker did a twirl, then flopped down on the bed again. Batman could tell by the way his shoulders shook that he was laughing.

What was he thinking about?

Fifteen minutes of no movement and Batman stood. “Computer. Bring up collection JCA.”

There was a brief pause, and then the sound of mechanics whirring and a voice giving a stilted affirmation filled the air.

He had many collections. No longer functional weapons he didn’t want falling into the wrong hands, some of Crane’s old fear toxin strains, clippings from some of Pamela Isley’s plants.

A new platform rose from the depths of the cave, and Batman stepped onto it via the bridge that formed. He walked past boxes filled with scraps, shoes with missing pairs, buttons, pausing in front of a mannequin wearing a slightly singed suit coat.

He remembered that day well. The Joker had escaped his grasp by slipping out of his coat, darting away into the night with just his silk-backed orange vest and gaudy yellow shirt. It was the first time he’d ever seen the Joker like that. Underdressed— for him, anyway. Not counting stints in Arkham where he had no control over his clothes. It was also the first time he’d noticed the Joker wore arm garters. He didn’t understand why someone would get all dolled up just to cause chaos.

Batman had thought that might be the time where he’d finally get the upper hand on the Joker, find where he got the coat, and follow a trail back to where he was hiding out. But there were no tags, no labels, and the only thing he’d learned was the Joker’s measurements. He kept it regardless. Alfred called him a hoarder, he preferred ‘thorough’. Better safe than sorry.

As Batman eyed the suit coat the fleeting thought crossed his mind to have the other pieces of the Joker’s ensemble recreated to finish the look. Alone on the mannequin the purple fabric seemed lonely.

The thought reached the other side of his mind and trickled out of his ears when he shook his head.

Batman continued on, finding the small container he’d recently added, where he’d put the Joker’s smiley-face cuff link. With no other current ideas he thought maybe the Joker had left it behind for a reason. Maybe there was a tracking device in it? If so though, something would have happened by now.

He rolled it over in his hand, glancing back at the computer.

The Joker was sleeping.

Bruce decided he might as well too.

 

He slept better that night than he had in a while.

The next morning he had a meeting at noon and he had to pull himself away from his computer with great reluctance. The entire hour he’d watched the Joker remained on the bed, on his stomach. On the floor next to the door was a tray of untouched food. Breakfast time at Arkham. Sad eggs and questionable-looking sausage. Bruce couldn’t blame him for not eating yet.

A deactivated Joker was more unsettling the more he saw it.

It was all he could think about during the meeting. A gathering of important people talking about funding for something or another, but ultimately just for show. He didn’t bother trying to re-focus his attention.

He wondered what else they served the inmates in Arkham. What the Joker ate outside of Arkham. He rarely saw the Joker eat.

He’d once crashed a Harley and Joker horror show where they’d been dining on filet mignon and drinking fine wine while their victims dangled from their ankles whispering choked cries for help. Bruce reasoned that most people wouldn’t turn down a good steak.

The tails on his coat had been extra long that day.

When Bruce next blinked, the speaker, a portly man named Byron or Nathanial— something with a ‘B’ or ‘N’ or maybe a ‘T’— was gathering up his papers. People were rising from their seats. Over already.

“Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce turned his head, instinctively smiling at the pretty red-head who stood next to him. It didn’t take long to realize it was the new commissioner who addressed him. They had technically never spoken before. “Yes?”

Barbara Gordon looked down her nose at him, and he had a feeling she’d do so even if he hadn’t been sitting. “Why bother coming at all?”

The dig at his lack of focus ran off him like water. He stood. “We all have different ways of doing our part. Commissioner Gordon the second, right? It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand and dialed up the charm.

The way Barbara narrowed her eyes and the too tight smile she gave showed she was not impressed. “That’s correct. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your work around the city,” she said, giving his hand a single, firm shake.

He knew what she meant, but that didn’t stop a small twinge of amusement running through him.

“Particularly your donations to the department. I—“

“We’ll have to set up a time to speak later. Unfortunately right now, I have another engagement I’m about to be late for.”

“Uh huh.” Barbara folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head. “Will that one be getting your full attention?”

Bruce chuckled, pushing in his chair. “You can talk to my secretary about setting up an appointment.”

“Wait, Mr. Wayne, I’ve been trying—“

Bruce walked out of the room at the same time the others did, giving him a small crowd to put some distance between him and the commissioner.

“You don’t even have a secretary!”

 

The Joker wasn’t in his cell. Shower time? Therapy? Or...

Bruce snapped up, fingers twitching with adrenaline. He quickly opened up another folder in the Joker’s file where he’d been keeping recordings of the surveillance footage. Who knew when he might need to investigate it later, after all. It didn’t take long to stop the current screen recording, save it after changing the name to the current date and time and open it up again.

The Joker was in bed, his breakfast by the door. That didn’t seem right, that was exactly where he’d been when Bruce left. He fast forwarded until he saw movement.

Two orderlies walked into the room. They said something, must have, then the Joker rolled over and opened his mouth wide in a yawn. Bruce wished the damn camera’s had sound. He couldn’t see anyone’s mouths well enough to read their lips.

The Joker sat up, and maybe cracked a joke, because in the next second one of the orderlies surged forward and yanked him off the bed. The orderly tossed the Joker on the ground and Bruce could see Joker laughing.

Bruce’s eyes circled around the small square of footage. The two orderlies took turns swinging their soft white shoes into the Joker’s too thin stomach, his back, his legs. Finally an orderly grabbed the Joker by the wrists and tried to get him to stand, but he wouldn’t (or couldn’t?). So they dragged the Joker from the cell.

He didn’t return.

Bruce clenched his fists against the keyboard, pressing hard against it. He sat down— he hadn’t realized he was standing— and closed the recording, and the file, focusing on the live stream.

The Joker had probably said something to instigate a fight. That didn’t give the workers at Arkham the right to abuse him like that. No matter what a monster he was. They’d probably bruised him.

Bruce squeezed his fists so tight his palms started to ache where his nails dug in. Was this always the standard of care at Arkham? Or was the Joker special? They were supposed to try and make him better, not indulge in his games. Not beat him. Not leave marks on his paper skin.

How many marks were hidden by his Arkham clothes?

Bruce sat in his chair and waited.

 

 

And waited.

 

 

 

 

And waited.

 

 

 

 

Three hours later the Joker was shoved inside the cell. He stumbled two steps before kicking his leg out and spinning around. He pressed thin wrists to his hips and said something to someone outside the door. Then it shut.

The Joker swayed on his feet, then slid down to his knees and rested his elbows on the bed. For one bizarre moment Bruce thought he was praying. The Joker’s fingers moved through his green hair, no longer stiff with product, then settled to rub at his temples.

What had they done to him?

Lunch came and the Joker ignored it.

Bruce wondered what the last thing the Joker ate was.

Dinner came. Finally the Joker moved to the tray and picked up the roll and the cup of water.

Bruce sighed and relaxed back into his chair.

The Joker finished both then climbed back into bed, under the thin sheet.

Bruce looked at the clock and jumped. It was already dark and Batman wasn’t ready. He spared one last look at the Joker, then turned away from the computer.

With Crane out there looking for fresh ingredients, it would be best to find and stop him before he put whatever he had planned into motion.

Analyzing the fear toxin had indeed revealed it to be one he hadn’t faced before. Making an antidote would take time. He’d focus on that tonight.

That way he could still check in on the Joker.

 

 

Three days later Bruce stepped inside Arkham Asylum and was greeted by a pleased Alexandra Sharp. “Why Bruce Wayne! What a coincidence.” She was wearing a gorgeous blue and yellow dress that somehow managed to look casual and formal all at once.

He’d said he would return to speak to the Joker once he got out of solitary, now was as good a time as any. It had been four days since he started his surveillance of the Joker. Bruce Wayne was one of Arkham’s biggest donors, if the patients were being mistreated, he could do something about it. He could also ask about the food.

It wasn’t about the Joker specifically. He wanted Arkham to be an effective place to rehabilitate the criminally insane. If the people he put in there just kept escaping to do the same thing his job would never be done. That was all.

For four days the Joker had eaten only one thing off his dinner tray. Was it the medicine that caused a lack of appetite? Or maybe it was part of his plan. Maybe depending on what food he ate, his lackeys would get a different signal.

Even he could admit that sounded a little too paranoid.

“Could you have known I’d be here today?”

Bruce chuckled, reaching out to briefly rest a hand on her back. “No, but this makes my visit all the more worthwhile.”

Alexandra walked him past security, and the secretary, ignoring the looks they received. He would have to send her a gift basket some day soon.

“But of course.” She folded her arms comfortably across her stomach, her posture the elegant slouch of a 1930s socialite. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you know someone inside.” She held a hand over her red lips as they quirked up.

Bruce was momentarily distracted by the color of her mouth. “Not quite. Unofficial business, I guess you could call it. Despite how much I’ve tried to help Arkham there still hasn’t been much progress on their toughest patients.”

Alexandra let out a long sigh, harmonizing with the rhythmic clack of her heels against the floor. “I hate when you go all philanthropist on me,” she whined.

Bruce’s smile gained another degree of realness. “I was actually hoping to get a chance to talk to one of them.”

Alexandra sighed. “I have no idea why, bunch of crazies.”

“Is that the new PC term?”

She swatted at his arm, and tugged open what Bruce recognized as the door to Quincy Sharp’s office. He wasn’t inside.

Bruce rolled his eyes over the large painting of Sharp, the sturdy mahogany desk, the rich red couch, and saw his donation dollars. “When the husband’s away, the wife comes to play?”

“I came to demand he take me to the Lexington’s _Summer Soirée in Fall_ , but he made up some excuse and waddled off to the botanical gardens. He should know better than to leave me alone in here.” Alexandra sank onto the couch long ways. The pout on her lips quivered for a second, and then she turned smoky eyes to Bruce. “What patient did you want to see?”

There was opportunity in the tone of her voice. “Someone I hear is a real problem, when they can keep him here. The Joker.” Bruce waited for her to shiver, or avert her gaze at the name, but to her credit, if the idea made her uncomfortable it didn’t show.

“I’m sure _Sharpie_ wouldn’t mind. He gave him that nickname you know, that Joker fellow. Sharpie. I think it’s cute.” Her gaze wandered off somewhere and got lost. For moments silence sank into the corners of the office, and then Alexandra stood and walked over to the phone that sat on Sharp’s desk.

 

The visiting room was cold in temperature and atmosphere. The single table had a wide stretch of plexiglass sticking out of it, and two guards stold inside. Bruce sat in a chair at one end of the table, and it gave a gentle creak.

Quincy Sharp had been annoyed at best, when Bruce said he wanted to speak to the patients first hand to see what the board could do to improve conditions at Arkham. Playing up a dash of selfish curiosity about the Joker, the whole request was assumed to be just one more thing to do for the quirky benefactor that nearly singlehandedly kept Arkham running.

Watching the door on the opposite side of the room, it hit Bruce that soon he would be coming face to face with the Joker.

For the first time.

The Joker had been in the same room as him when he was Bruce Wayne before, but never like this.

He slid a hand over his chin, muscles tensing by sinews.

When the door opened it took every ounce of self control not to flinch. Two more guards walked in, the glass making them look dirty and scratched. Between them was a lean figure.

They sat him at the table and Bruce reminded himself to breathe while they strapped down the Joker’s wrists and ankles.

Bruce’s eyes were fixed on the Joker’s collarbones poking out of his shirt. He felt a strange sense of anxiety ripple through him and sucked in a breath, irritation replacing it.

This was an opportunity to try and feel out what the Joker had planned, what he was thinking. He had to stay focused.

Bruce lifted his eyes to the Joker’s face.

The Joker was smiling. It was the smile he might give to a toy right before breaking it.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Do you know who I am?”

“What self-respecting Gothamite doesn’t know _the_ Bruce Wayne?” The Joker leaned forward in his seat, and a guard leaned with him. “Oh boy, you’re juuust as handsome as they say. Blink blink blink, blinkity blink blink blink." The Joker punctuated each word with a flutter of his eyelashes.

It was odd, being treated differently by someone he spent an arguably large amount of time around. The Joker’s flirting felt more sarcastic than usual. “Ah... ha.”

The Joker fell back in his chair, rolling his neck and sighing in an odd sort of contentment. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I support this asylum. From what I hear, you’re their most difficult patient.”

He didn’t know how to be Bruce Wayne around the Joker. He knew the clown’s tricks but Bruce Wayne did not. Would it be better to use this information to avoid falling into any pitfalls or should he play along to avoid rousing any suspicion in the clown?

The Joker gasped, eyes widening. “ _Moi?_ Worse than Killer Croc? You flatter me. Then again, I guess you can’t really be difficult when you’re trapped in a sewer. Hah! So what then, the famous Bruce Wayne wanted to meet infamous little ol’ me? Little star struck are we?”

Bruce folded his hands together and played his part. He pulled out his most charming smile. It took significantly more effort than usual. It felt wrong. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’re really as bad as they say.”

He needed to gain the Joker’s interest, or the clown would have no incentive to throw him a bone. As the Joker dropped his head forward though, catching and holding Bruce’s eyes with wide green that were grassy fields and mold and oxidized copper and crashing waves, Bruce felt less like the one throwing the net and more like the one underneath it.

“Oh undoubtedly. I’m craaaaazy. Lost cause. We’ve got a lot in common though.”

“And why is that?” Bruce Wayne said with just the right amount of arrogance. He saw the Joker’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, and unconsciously mimicked the gesture.

“You’ve got all that money and you throw it at this shit-hole to make yourself feel better about being rich.” The Joker clicked his tongue. His smile grew wide and cruel and squeezed his voice into something smooth and deep. “And I think you really believe you’re making a difference. If that’s not crazy I don’t know what is.” That face usually prefaced screams and blood.

Even strapped down to a chair, Bruce had the sickening feeling that the Joker could spring up, burst through the glass, and get hands around his neck. “If you see something in the asylum that needs to be fixed, well, that’s what I’m here for.” The words left his lips before he had time to analyze them. Bruce felt his heart thrum in his chest and he chastised himself, toes curling in his shoes. “If you’re being mistreated, I can help.”

Joker stared at him for several long seconds. His eyes narrowed until they were little upside down smiles. His mouth twisted up until it looked like it would split his face in half. The transition was so subtle if felt like Bruce was watching real life in slow motion.

Then the Joker laughed.

In the small room, each individual HA bounced off the walls and drilled into Bruce’s ears in quick succession.

The Joker tossed his head back and laughter shook him, making his wrists spasm in their restraints.

Bruce leaned back in his seat and his body trembled with unused energy. He wanted to go over and shake the Joker until the noise stopped.

“Be quiet,” one of the guards yelled loud enough to be heard over the raucous sound of the Joker’s glee, but the clown didn’t obey. He rocked back and forth so hard his chair started to wobble. The guards began to unstrap him, yanking him out of his seat, rough enough to make the Joker collide with the table.

Then they dragged him to the door, still laughing. “Wait— AHAHAHA— Wait I have such a good— PfftHA— damn you fools this joke is golden!” The Joker disappeared around the doorframe in a flurry of failing feet. That was it.

Bruce stared after him, left wondering what had just happened. He stood, sat back down, then stood again.

One of the guards spoke from behind him. “Sorry, Mister Wayne, visiting hours are over.”

Bruce had forgotten they were there.

 

 

“Are you all right sir?”

Bruce nearly dropped his cup of ice. He whipped around to see Alfred standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Alfred! How long have you been there?”

“I’ve been here from the moment you walked in.”

“Oh... well. Yes. I’m fine. Why?”

Alfred eyebrow rose up in degrees. “Because I’ve been here from the moment you walked in.”

Bruce stood taller, lifting his head. “Just distracted I guess.”

“I see. I haven’t seen you home at night this many days in a row in quite some time.”

Bruce checked the time on the oven. The realization that Batman had not been out in four days hit him like a rollercoaster. Bruce set down his cup and pursed his lips. “I’ve been very busy.”

“Honestly, you’ve seemed a little out of it, sir.”

“Out of it?”

Alfred leaned forwards, tilting his head. “Perhaps a better word is ‘mopey?’”

Bruce grunted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Does this have anything to do with your trip to Arkham sir?”

“No.”

“I’ve seen the video feed in the cave. He’s not going to disappear if you take your eyes off him for a moment.”

Bruce shook his head. He picked up his cup, going to the refrigerator to fill it with the filtered water he’d come for in the first place. “He could make a move at any time.”

“I don’t think he will.”

The ice cubes swirled as he filled the glass, and Bruce watched them as a wrinkle punctured his brow. “What?”

“He did turn himself in. It has been some time. He did not leave when Ms. Quinzel tried to break him out.”

Bruce turned to look at Alfred, frowning.

Alfred let out a sigh. “You want to beat him so badly Master Wayne that you don’t realize you’ve already won.”

Cold liquid hit his hand, and Bruce startled, realizing he’d overfilled the cup. He pulled it to his lips to take a sip, unsettled by Alfred’s calm words and rational voice.

It had been days since Arkham and Bruce still felt irritated by the visit’s pointlessness. It had barely been worth the trip.

No— he’d talked with Quincy about ensuring patients received the best care, about ensuring security wasn’t too rough, ensuring food was up to standard. He’d started pulling strings to give Arkham’s cafeteria the upgrade it dearly needed.

But he certainly hadn’t won. Alfred was wrong.

The Joker’s routine had not changed. He laid in bed, or sometimes danced around or stretched but he never touched lunch or breakfast. Sometimes at dinner he’d take more than just the bread, but he never ate a full meal.

Every so often orderlies would come and drag him out of his cell. Sometimes he went quietly, sometimes he went laughing, but he never put up much of a fight. Maybe he didn’t want to go back to solitary.

That didn’t mean that the Joker had lost. Alfred was wrong. He was wrong.

“It’s not over yet,” Bruce insisted. He pretended not to see the look Alfred gave him.

 

 

A string of pharmaceutical related robberies the next week kept Batman busy. Each one was a different thread in the web Crane was weaving. He’d compiled a list of all the ingredients the doctor was trying to collect.

They were predictable. Meth-amphetamines, Adderall, Suboxone, Hydrocodone. Predictable enough that Batman was certain they weren’t what he was using for his toxin.

A diversion? A small side business to fund his real project?

He didn’t know but he was getting tired of knocking out the same carbon copies rifling through drug store inventory every night. They probably hadn’t even seen the doctor in person. They probably didn’t even know anything useful.

It was tedious and unproductive.

Batman yanked off his cowl as he dropped into his chair. The computer lit up to greet him and he loosed a heavy sigh. “Computer, bring up the Joker’s cell.”

  
Coming back this late meant going through hours of footage he’d missed. That was also tedious, but it felt slightly more productive.

Recording the livestream meant all he had to do was open up the files that already saved and make sure the Joker was up to nothing suspicious. Without fast-forward he wouldn’t get to sleep until the sun was well in the sky.

Batman stretched his legs, then his neck, trying to work the night’s tension out of his body. Despite all the running around he didn’t feel tired. Rather, he felt restless. Like he had too much energy he needed to work off. That was often the case lately.

Batman eyed the small figure on the screen. Immediately he noticed the Joker was holding something. A letter? Who had written to the Joker?

Batman squinted, making a few adjustments and attempting to zoom in, despite knowing reading it would be impossible.

He could see a dark mark on the back of the paper. Maybe a lipstick mark. Definitely a lipstick mark. Quinzel.

Batman dived back into the saved recordings and searched for the moment the Joker received the letter. It was pushed through the slot in the door without announcement. Maybe they said something to him.

The Joker slid off the bed and crawled to the letter. Instead of peeling open the flap he just ripped the top off the envelope. For a beat the Joker did not move, then he hopped up, fell back on the bed.

He unfolded the paper and smiled.

Batman paused the recording. He stared, tilted his head, pursed his lips, tried to figure out what it was about this that made him feel so unsettled. He looked at the Joker’s face.

He’d thought he knew all of the Joker’s smiles, but he didn’t know this one. That made two. How many more had he been missing?

 

 

The bat signal again. He’d thought the new commissioner would be mad at him for not playing well with others.

It was a welcome reprieve from the monotonous routine he’d fallen into.

Catch Jonathan Crane’s goons robbing a pharmacy. Check what they’d stolen. Search for leads. Watch the Joker.

The Joker still hadn’t put his plan into motion, or if he had it was too subtle for even Batman to notice. The more he watched the more Bruce felt a strange sense of... something. He didn’t know what. It put him on edge, staring at the Joker in that little room. That had never happened when the Joker was in Arkham before. He usually felt triumphant.

Batman glided onto the rooftop of the GCPD and landed effortlessly.

Barbara was alone. “Batman.” She sounded out of breath. “I need your help.”

“What’s the situation?”

“Hostages. Maybe up to... seven. Or more.”

“What is the GCPD doing?” He couldn’t hear any sirens. There hadn’t been anything on the police radio prior to his arrival, either. He’d been checking religiously, looking for anything other than Crane to occupy himself with.

Barbara ran a hand through her hair once, then again. “Nothing. There’s not any evidence to catch the bastard.”

“How?”

“There’s... he runs a storage unit facility in the Diamond District. It’s... just, bear with me okay?”

Batman frowned.

“A man’s fiancé went missing. He reported it to the GCPD last week. Apparently she’s a real uptight type, not likely to take an unplanned trip or go anywhere without e-mailing him a complete itinerary. There were no leads, so I started thinking maybe the fiancé had something to do with it and just reported it to get us off his scent. So I was checking him out and found he owns a unit at that storage facility. The—“

“Cut to the point, Commissioner.”

“Bear with me I said! The man who runs that place said he’d seen the fiancé but that she just checked out the unit and left. Of course we looked into it and found evidence that she had indeed been there. We started looking for other leads. That would have been the last of it but I remembered a missing persons report from a while back that Grayson was talking about, one Eva Roberts. The sister insisted the last place she’d seen Roberts was that same storage facility.”

“A little more cutting.”

Barbara inhaled deeply, and pulled at the flat red strands of her hair until they were all in disarray. “There’s just a lot of coincidences. Two more reports where the last place they were known to go was that same facility. Out of curiosity I looked up some blueprints of the place. The basement wasn’t on them.”

“What does that have to do with—“

“Batman! So I dug back further and saw the basement used to be a whole floor of units that were supposed to be for storage, but a few were owned by Robert Bradly.” She was in hysterics.

Batman watched her pace restlessly around the roof, thoroughly confused and more than a little impatient.

“I’m almost done. Robert Bradley has been missing for over a year now. Like I said, a bunch of coincidences. But I have a bad feeling about that place.” The light from the bat signal cast shadows on Barbara’s wrinkled brow. It was such an odd contrast to her usual calm, confident demeanor.

Comparing this to her previous behavior, Batman wondered if maybe there was more to the situation after all. Barbara didn’t seem like a woman to get so worked up over nothing.

“So what is it you want me to do?”

Barbara paused in her pacing, turning around to look at him. Her fingers clung to the sleeves of her jacket. “...There’s a part of the basement that opens up into the sewers. If you could... just check things out. Just to be sure.”

He could tell Barbara that he was not at the GCPD’s beck and call. But her harried attitude, his own gnawing curiosity, and the fact that he’d been doing nothing but drug busts for what seemed like an age made it too tempting an offer to turn down cold. “Fine.”

“Thank you! Thank you.” Barbara took in a deep breath, then let it out. “Okay. I’ve got a map of those sewers, it’s a pretty complicated network. I could guide you through—“

“I told you. I work better alone.” He turned and strode to the edge of the roof.

“Wait! Look, it’ll be much faster if we work together. It could be nothing, and if it’s nothing then you can say I told you so and I won’t bother you about it again. But if I’m right, then I want to make sure the GCPD is ready to catch this bastard.” The conviction in her voice was the only thing that made Batman remain still during her speech.

Commissioner Gordon— the former— had been content to sit back and let him do his thing. Trusted him to. The new commissioner obviously wanted a more proactive role. Batman had been waiting for the GCPD to step up for so long now it seemed strange to actually see it.

He understood there were some things the police simply couldn’t do.

Batman considered, looking over the determination in the tight press of her lips, the flare of her nostrils. Perhaps if he gave a little now, it would set up groundwork for the future. He needed the commissioner’s trust as much as she wanted his cooperation.

Batman stepped forward, reaching into one of the pouches on his utility belt. From it he took an earpiece, holding it out to the commissioner.

She regarded him curiously before stepping forwards and taking it with a hesitant hand.

“I go alone,” he stipulated.

Barbara fixed the dual microphone/speaker to her ear and nodded. “The facility is at 1314 Neward Street.”

Batman turned and leaped off the building. Gliding through the city, the wind hitting his jaw and filling his cape, that familiar adrenaline began to creep through his veins.

“Batman? Can you hear me?”

Batman winced, landing on a rooftop with a roll and pulling out his grappling gun in one smooth motion. “Yes. You don’t have to shout.”

“Sorry. There’s a sewer grate in front of the building that should give you access.”

“Understood.”

Batman wasn’t familiar with the address. Which meant the place had never had any reported break-ins or trouble to speak of, at least nothing large enough to pull his attention. Considering it was Penguin’s territory, that was mildly surprising.

Batman landed soundlessly in front of the facility and looked around. There was still one car in the parking lot but there was every chance it belonged to someone who just didn’t feel like paying for parking elsewhere.

Batman found the aforementioned grate and kneeled to open it.

“Did you find it?”

He grunted an affirmative.

“Good! Let me know when you’re inside.”

“I will.”

The commissioner sounded far too enthusiastic. It was too late to regret anything now. Batman climbed down the ladder into the sewer, dropping down the last few rungs and wrinkling his nose at the smell.

“Are you in?”

“Yes. Are you going to continue asking questions every five minutes?”

“I just want to know what’s going on. Okay, walk in a straight line from your current position until you reach a fork.”

He’d spent so many years working alone it was odd having a voice in his ear.

Batman turned to the wall next to the ladder, pulling out a small signal box from his utility belt and fixing it to the brick. This way he could find his way back when he was ready to leave. There was no point in having Barbara guide him back, too.

The light from the eyes of his cowl wasn’t sufficient enough to see, so he switched the vision to night, blinking at the expanse of green that spread out before him.

“Are you there yet?”

“No.”

Batman started forward, making sure to keep his steps quiet and careful, just in case someone did turn out to be around.

It was like walking through a maze. He could see faint stains on the ground ahead that could very well be blood.

“Are you there yet?”

“No.”

There was the fork up ahead. He paused at the stain, tilting his head and kneeling down.

“Are you—“

“I’ll get there when I get there.”

“Sorry.” Sounding sufficiently chastised, Barbara remained quiet until he’d stopped his brief investigation and continued forward.

“All right, I’m there.”

“Go left. You’ll pass three corridors before you wanna go through the one on your right.”

Batman followed her instructions to the letter. She was right, the network was complicated enough that he didn’t have much confidence in finding anything without a map of his own.

“I’m starting to think I was wrong.”

Batman frowned, but didn’t slow his steps. “About?”

“Maybe this city does need Batman. There are some things the police just can’t do. I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

No, she didn’t.

Barbara let out a short, derisive laugh. “We’ve got that brat Wayne in our pockets, but I haven’t figured out if he’s going to be a real asset yet or not. Do you know how many councils he’s on in this city? It’s ridiculous. The guy just does not strike me as the type. He’s nice, but... kind of an airhead, you know?”

At least he knew the act was working. “Is this relevant to the hostage situation we’re investigating?”

“...No. Sorry.” The way Barbara rambled made it clear her new responsibilities as police commissioner were starting to get to her. It was a tough job, though Gordon had made it look easy.

“Gotham is so different from Blüdhaven...”

“Going right.” Batman turned down the corridor she’d mentioned.

“Okay. Keep walking until you reach the end of the tunnel and take a left.”

For several long minutes silence prevailed. Batman was highly aware of Barbara’s presence, even though she was nowhere near him.

“Batman? This does not have to do with the hostages, but it is important. When the Joker turned himself in, I was preparing for something big. But a month has come and gone.”

Batman tensed at the name, blinking slowly. Had it really been that long?

“You probably know the Joker better than anyone. Do you really think he’s gone for good?”

Alfred’s words floated to the front of his mind. The growl escaped his mouth before he really thought about it. “No.” The lack of his own footsteps startled him. He hadn’t meant to stop walking. “No.”

The Joker? Gone for good? A bad joke. One not even the clown would even laugh at.

“Yeah... yeah, I didn’t think so. There, there should be a door in front of you.”

There was. Batman was surprised to find it unlocked. Even more strange was what lay beyond it. A long corridor, silver and shiny and new. Obscenely clean in comparison to the connecting sewers. There were rows of doors with bottles one might used to feed a hamster attached.  
The sight made foreboding settle heavy in his stomach.

“Find anything?”

Batman walked over to one of the doors, peeking through the bars the bottles were hooked up through.

“Batman?”

Bile rose in the back of his throat. Batman tugged open the door. Inside was a young woman. Her mouth was stapled shut and her eyes were worn and tired.

At the sight of him she stood, then stumbled, and blood dribbled slowly from her wounds.

“Batman?”

“Barbara... you were right.”


	6. Hearing Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Joker begins a new type of therapy with his new doctor.

“Back again?” The Joker leaned back in his seat like it was a throne, managing to look like the most powerful person in the room despite being strapped down.

Bruce forced a small smile, folding his hands together. “Looks like it.”

It had been slightly more difficult this time to get access to Arkham’s most dangerous patient. Apparently the laughing fit had made the Joker difficult to manage, restless for days after Bruce visited.

That wasn’t surprising— Bruce was certain Joker had to be bored out of his mind. A visitor would be just the thing to get his blood pumping.

High off last week’s victory with the commissioner, catching a psychopath, it seemed prudent to start his next attempt at Joker as soon as possible. It might have also had something to do with him disliking the way their last interaction had ended.

“Well, I can’t say I’m not happy to see you, Brucie. Can I call you Brucie?”

Bruce wrinkled his nose just slightly. He did not understand the Joker’s inability to call anyone by their real name. “I’d prefer you didn’t. Why are you happy to see me?”

The Joker shifted in his chair, and Bruce got the impression he might have waved a hand, if they were free. “Don’t get too flattered. I’d be happy to see anyone who’s not these bunch of Debbie Downers.” The Joker looked towards his guards and stuck out his tongue.

They remained impassive.

“The question remains though, why you came back to this, ah, lovely establishment. Mmh, do let me take a guess, you’re the one who’s got all the clipboards in a fuss about the cafeteria food. Need a little good publicity do we? What’d you do? Hookers? Children?” The Joker gasped, leaning forward as far as he could. “Child hookers? Whatever it is I don’t think giving the people who terrorize Gotham on a daily basis better food is going to turn the city back on your side.”

Bruce grit his teeth and bore the attack, knowing the Joker was only looking for a reaction. “That’s not true,” he began, but the Joker interrupted.

“What’s not true? That Gotham couldn’t give two flying flips what we eat in here or that the hookers were underage?”

“There were no hookers.” Bruce took in a deep breath, shaking his head. They were getting nowhere fast, just like before. “Look, I just want to... understand what this is all about.”

“What what is about? You’ll have to be a bit more specific, Brucie.”

Bruce felt a nerve in is jaw twitch in irritation, and took another deep breath. “I’m not as stupid as you think.”

The Joker whistled out a long exhale, then wet the corners of his mouth with his tongue. “That’s a relief.”

“Ha. I’m not naive. Arkham could never hold you before, no matter how much money I poured into security.”

The Joker regarded him, pink lips parted in the shadow of a smile. “Oh, I see. This is about ego then... little Brucie can’t fathom a problem money can’t fix.”

“Something like that. So why are you still here?”

The Joker giggled to himself for a second, shifting in the chair. He looked like someone had just charged him full of electricity, and for the first time Bruce felt like he’d asked the right question.

“Are you trying to encourage me to escape?”

“No of course not. I’m just aware that you could.”

This made the Joker howl. Bruce heard the rattle of chains that meant the Joker had tried to move his ankles. The guards stepped closer but Joker calmed by himself, rolling his shoulders.

“Oh Brucie... you flatter me.” Joker let out an exaggerated sigh, eying Bruce as if he was seeing him for the first time.

Bruce didn’t want him looking too closely at his face. The Joker and he had been up close and personal too much to hope that he wouldn’t be recognized.

“Let me tell you— and I can tell you because you don’t have one of those pesky degrees, do you know how _tiresome_ it is being asked how you _feel_ all the time?” The Joker rolled his eyes. “Very! But you, Brucie, you are an unexpected treat. Here’s the gag.”

It was too much to hope for that the Joker was being honest, right now. That didn’t stop Bruce’s pulse from ticking up a few more beats per minute.

“Do you like games?”

“I like them enough.”

“Well then you can imagine how frustrating it is, when you spend all your time on making the game _perfect_...” the Joker tilted his head up, chin casting shadows down his long throat. “...but your player two refuses to participate.”

“Player two?”

“That sort of behavior has to be punished.”

Bruce didn’t follow. “You’re... punishing yourself?”

The Joker narrowed his eyes at him, green eyebrows pushing together. “No no no, _Batman_.”

“...Bat...man?” Bruce straightened, still not sure how to put these puzzle pieces together. Still not sure what the gag was.

“Yes, _the_ Batman. What we had was special. All I had to do was cause a little mischief, spill a little blood, and he’d come flying. Sometimes he’d find me just minding my own business and come at me! We were locked in a dance that could have lasted a lifetime. An unstoppable force and an immovable object.” The Joker paused theatrically. “I gave him purpose. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself without a bus full of children to save.”

Bruce stared while the Joker snickered. The world was slowly rotating ninety degrees and somehow he had to remain calm. Bruce squeezed his folded hands together, careful to keep his voice calm. “You’re wrong. Batman still has purpose. He’s still helping people.”

The Joker snorted. “Well of course, he’s got all those pesky little morals. And why listen to me, I’m crazy! Maybe Batman’s gotten the best sleep of his life with me off the streets...” A slow, sly smile curled the Joker’s lips, tongue swiping across the curve and making Bruce glare. “But I doubt it. I’ll bet he’s bored out of his pointy little skull. Scarecrow? Boring. Penguin? Extra boring. And don’t even try to tell me any small time criminal could give him a challenge. He needs to flex his muscles! Use his skills. I bring him to life.” The Joker’s chains rattled again, and he ran his eyes over the ceiling, as if he were searching for something. “He’s probably watching _right now_ , keeping an eye on little ole me, infuriated that he can’t figure out my plan. Wishing I’d bust out and come back to him already.”

Bruce felt sick to his stomach. There was no way the Joker knew about the camera. There was no way the Joker could know about his insomnia. The Joker was only guessing. Had to be. “You’re... Batman doesn’t _enjoy_ your twisted schemes.”

The Joker’s eyes seemed to glint even in the low light. “You don’t know him like I do, Brucie. No one does.”

 

 

“Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce blinked and the world righted itself. He was standing in a hallway in Arkham just outside the visiting room. He could hear the Joker’s laughter echoing around him, but knew it was only in his head. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. He couldn’t even pinpoint what the end of their conversation had been.

The Joker was very good at making him angry. This was different. The Joker’s perverted insinuations between the two of them had never stretched past their rooftop dance before.

Joker was telling Bruce Wayne that he was _punishing_ Batman by hiding in Arkham. As if Batman couldn’t function without him.

The Joker really was delusional.

“Mr. Wayne?”

Realizing it was a voice that snapped him out of his thoughts Bruce forced a smile, and turned to the man addressing him. “Yes, hello.”

The man was wearing a white doctor’s coat. He had sleek, rectangular glasses sitting on his nose, and a startling amount of product in his hair. “Dr. Franklin Peralta, pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard about you.”

Peralta smiled, but only with his mouth. “So, I hear you’ve taken an interest in my patient.”

Bruce slid his hands into his pockets, nodding. “Yes, yes, ‘The Joker’. Fascinating man. Do you really think you can cure him?” It was harder than usual to slip into his Bruce Wayne suit. His fingers twitched against the silk-lining of his pockets, itching for something unknown.

Peralta wet his lips. “Well, I think everyone can be cured, with the right therapy. Come Mr. Wayne, I’ll walk you out. You were ah, done here, yes?”

Bruce could take a hint. “That’s very kind of you, Dr. Peralta. Yes, I was just leaving.”

Peralta rested a hand on his arm, applying just enough pressure to give him the sense that Peralta wanted him out quicker than he was moving. As they strolled down the hall, the doctor eyed him with hands clasped behind his back. “May I ask _why_ exactly you’re interested in my patient?”

“Oh, well, who isn’t interested in the Joker?” Bruce flashed a charming smile, tilting his head. “I’ve always been rather fascinated by people like him. How can they stomach doing what they do, you know?”

Peralta’s chuckle held notes of condescension. “As I’ve found, it’s usually due to some past trauma. The mind is a delicate thing.” Peralta stopped walking, so Bruce stopped as well, turning to face him. “The only reason I bring this up is because I’m afraid that will be the last visit I can allow. I don’t think they’re helping with my patient’s therapy.”

Bruce frowned, fingers tugging at his pocket lining. “Oh, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I’m on the Arkham board, I just wanted to see what you all dealt with on a daily basis.”

“I see.” Peralta was not impressed by the mention of Bruce’s connections, but the way he narrowed his eyes said he wasn’t indifferent either. “Well, I appreciate your enthusiasm. However, I will soon be starting a new treatment plan with the Joker. It is imperative that nothing disturb the course of his therapy.”

“Of course.” Bruce held up his hands and offered another smile. “I’d hate to disrupt your work.”

“I’m glad you understand, Mr. Wayne.” Peralta gave him a brief smile, and then started to walk again.

It was difficult to keep the pleasant smile on his face. It was difficult not to let his anger boil over as he turned and waved and walked out of the Penitentiary, back to his car.

He didn’t know what the anger was directed at anymore. He doubted Peralta would be an issue, if he thought it necessary to speak to the Joker again.

Why would it be, though? He’d found out what he’d been dying to know. Assuming the Joker had been telling the truth.

Of course, it was very possible he was lying. More than possible. The Joker couldn’t seriously believe that Batman was his ‘player two’, that what they did was some sort of elaborate game they both took pleasure in. Certainly not. He’d have to be crazy.

...Right.

When he got home Alfred was waiting at the door with tight lips and worried eyes. 

Bruce eyed him as he stepped in, sensing whatever the butler had to say he wasn’t going to like it.

“Did you find what you were looking for, sir?”

There was a question. Bruce was torn. To answer truthfully would be admitting that Alfred had been right— the Joker had turned himself in because of Batman.

“Maybe,” Bruce settled on, unbuttoning his suit jacket. “Assuming I can trust anything he says.”

“Will you be making this a regular habit? Compromising your identity, I mean.”

“He didn’t recognize me, Alfred.”

“But what if he does? You’ll have put yourself in grave danger, for what payout?”

“I have to stay vigilant. The Joker’s doctor was acting suspicious, they may be planning something together.”

“I see.” Alfred seemed content to change the subject, and for that Bruce was grateful. The Joker was not his favorite topic of conversation, especially not with Alfred.

All too often he simply didn’t understand why Bruce had to do what he did.

When Bruce went down to the batcave to check the surveillance feed, the Joker wasn’t in his cell. Unsurprising, considering his talk with Dr. Peralta. The Joker was probably in therapy. Something about that doctor struck him as off. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he’d be keeping an eye on him, too.

He opened up his file on the recent pharmaceutical thefts, deciding he might as well get a little work done on that while he waited for the Joker to return.

His mind was not fully engaged, and wandered to the last case he’d worked with the new Commissioner Gordon. It had been… unusual to say the least. Horrific to say the most. What sort of man would lock people up like that? Like animals. Stephen McGreggor was a monster. No, worse than a monster.

The Joker wouldn’t—

Bruce frowned, stopping that train of thought where it was.

The Joker had done horrible things to people. You couldn’t weigh one madman against another.

Bruce waited another hour, but the Joker still didn’t return to his cell. After their conversation earlier, he was almost glad of it. He hated to have to admit the Joker was right about something, anything. He _was_ watching. But it was necessary. That didn’t mean the Joker was right about his motives, too.

Bruce shook his head and stood from his computer. He’d do a little more digging into Peralta, and focus on his other cases for the time being. He’d finally gotten a reason as to why the Joker had turned himself in, even if it wasn’t really one he wanted to believe.

Alfred seemed to think he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but he would be inspecting this one thoroughly for cavities.

 

 

 

“You think the Scarecrow is behind all these pharmaceutical robberies?”

“I don’t think, I know.” Batman shifted back impatiently, eager to return home after a long night out. There had been no new developments in the Crane case, and nothing else that desperately needed his attention.

Most of his time had been spent perched on a rooftop, keeping his cape at just the right angle to keep out the chill. He’d been more than a little relieved upon spotting the bat signal.

“I’ll look into it,” Barbara said in a thoughtful voice, resting her hands on her hips.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Things are quiet with the Joker away, huh?”

Batman felt irritated at just the mention of the name. He still didn’t know how to feel about the clown’s declarations, how to process them. What to do about them.

“Quiet is good.”

Batman turned and stepped off the roof.

 

 

When he returned to the cave Batman glanced briefly at the file he had open on his computer, the information he’d been compiling on the Joker’s doctor. Peralta was squeaky clean. On the surface, anyway. He just had to dig a little deeper. In the meantime there were other things to worry about.

Batman closed the file and instead checked the video feed, air leaving his nose in a huff. He squinted, and tilted his head, and pursed his lips, but still couldn’t make sense of it.

“Welcome home, sir.”

Batman turned to see Alfred bearing a hot cup of what smelled like coffee. He barely remembered to give a quiet ‘thanks’ before he took a sip, and looked back to the computer. Frustration made his feet tap against the ground.

“Something wrong?”

“He hasn’t been in his cell in over twenty-four hours.” Alfred probably didn’t want to hear it, but Batman found it too odd to keep quiet about.

“Perhaps he is being held in solitary confinement.”

That was likely. It felt wrong though.

Batman scowled at his own thoughts. Following intuition was one thing, following random feelings with no basis behind them was another.

He couldn’t let the clown get under his skin. Any further than he already had.

Batman took another sip of his coffee and forced himself to calm. “Alfred, do—“

Alfred was gone. Batman stared, wondered when he’d walked off, then turned back to his computer screen.

 

 

The next day, the Joker still wasn’t in his cell.

Bruce sat down and looked through all the footage from the few hours sleep he’d gotten, and the Joker hadn’t returned once. Solitary was the only option, because Arkham had not reported him missing.

It made Bruce feel agitated for reasons he couldn’t place.

“Not going out tonight, sir?” Alfred asked, when he was still in civilian clothes at nine o’clock.

“No, I’ll be working from home.”

Alfred gave him a knowing look that Bruce pretended not to see, and went to the cave to continue monitoring the Joker’s cell.

 

 

 

 

By the fourth day, the agitation had grown into a sort of restless anxiety. Sleep would not come. His life had been narrowed down to grainy, silent video footage of a small, white room with a small, empty bed.

Alfred had yet to say anything, but Bruce knew that he didn’t approve, didn’t understand. Bruce hardly understood it himself. Something just didn’t feel right.

“Something is wrong.” The Joker had not returned to his cell in far too long. Bruce slipped the cowl over his face and Batman strode down the hall with purpose.

“Arkham has reported no escapes,” Alfred pointed out. “Surely if—“

“Something’s wrong.” He was sure of it. “Trust me Alfred, I know him. He’s...”

Batman stopped himself, the phrase ‘he’s up to something’ not seeming appropriate. Because for once, he didn’t think the Joker was up to anything.

Yet, alarm bells were ringing in his head. He had to go back to Arkham.

 

Breaking inside was disgustingly easy. Disgusting because Batman felt like he was doing something wrong. He _was_ doing something wrong. There was no reason for him to sneak inside Arkham. If he asked, he was almost sure Sharp would accommodate him.

But it was pushing one a.m. and Batman was hearing red. It didn’t make much sense to him, either. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was _wrong_. Greens looked washed out. Everything else felt too vibrant, too sharp.

Disabling the security cameras made him feel guilty. Dodging the guards made his stomach flip uncomfortably. Pick-pocketing a key from one of them made him uneasy. But Batman didn’t stop until he reached the maximum security ward. Despite knowing what he would find, he went to the Joker’s cell regardless.

He opened the door and stared at the empty room. The pristine, white space somehow looked gray. It was possible they’d moved the Joker to a new cell. Maybe someplace especially made for him. He was confident they wouldn’t move him out of the ward entirely. It would be far too easy for the Joker to incite a riot if he was allowed contact with the other patients.

The information would be on the Arkham computers. He just needed five minutes with one of them.

He felt guilty, uncomfortable, uneasy, but something was wrong.

Batman made his way back to the front of the building, retracing his steps. Crawling through the just large enough vents and trying to keep quiet was agony. It took time it didn’t feel like he had.

The secretary sitting behind the desk looked like she might fall asleep at any moment. Batman needed a distraction. Needed to get her away from her chair. On the night shift, there were no guards near reception, which was a small favor. He didn’t know what he would have done if there were, but he had no doubt it would have been something he shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

Batman crept a little ways down the hall, and applied a liberal amount of explosive gel to the floor.

When it detonated she screamed. The explosion wasn’t large enough to set off any alarms, but it was enough to draw attention. Guards would be arriving soon, Batman was sure.

That was all the better to allow him ease of movement, but first, he needed that computer.

The secretary sprung up from her seat and scrambled away, before shifting back to reach for the phone. Then, apparently changing her mind, she shot out from around the desk and ran down the hall.

Batman took her place, fingers flying over the keyboard of the Dell PC.

The Arkham database folder was encrypted. It took him twenty seconds to crack the code, and another minute to decrypt the Joker’s file once he found it.

 _Cell 0801_  
_Name: Unknown_  
_Alias: Joker_  
_Age: Unknown_  
_Hair color: Green_  
_Eye color: Green_

Batman skimmed down, needing more. If his cell hadn’t been changed, then he needed to figure out what had.

_Special considerations: Resistant to most medications  
Status: Medical Facility_

Batman’s heart pounded with such force it hurt. The screen grew steadily desaturated.

Footsteps and shouts finally snapped him out of his head, and Batman slipped away before the guards coming to investigate the explosion could see him.

The Medical Facility was in Arkham West, a straight shot from the Penitentiary. Batman wasn’t sure how current the file was, but it was his only lead.

The night air was strangely warm. No, not warm. Nonexistent. No air, no wind, no nothing. Batman felt nothing.

_Is he injured? Was it the guards?_

He didn’t think the Joker could get sick. He’d never seen or heard him in less than peak physical condition in all the years they’d known each other. Of course as Harley had pointed out, he usually saw the Joker when he wanted to be seen.

Batman grappled up to the highest vantage point he could find and glided to his new destination. An odd sort of alert panic was beginning to dictate his movements.

He couldn’t explain why. If the Joker had been injured it certainly explained why he’d been out of his cell. That should be the end of it.

But Batman had to know.

The Joker couldn’t die. It had nothing to do with what Batman wanted, it was just an impossibility. He’d seen the Joker survive more than any normal human being should be able to.

The Joker couldn’t die.

If the Joker died... what? If he died, the world would be a better place.

Batman’s throat tightened so much that he couldn’t breathe.

The Medical Facility looked deserted. There was no one in sight when Batman got inside. Nonetheless, he chose to travel via ventilation shaft, just in case. The one he chose led out into the Sanatorium.

He heard footsteps, and quickly grappled up to one of the decorative gargoyles that dotted Arkham in an almost alarming amount. Beneath him, two doctors, a man and a woman, walked swiftly by. He didn’t recognize either of them.

They were heading north towards an exit, and Batman debated between following them or finding his own way.

He didn’t know where to start. Follow it was.

The woman was shaking her head quickly enough that her black ponytail looked like a metronome. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Years of this and I still can’t figure out the proper dosage,” one of the doctors complained. “If I give him any more drugs he probably won’t make it. I mean, he _shouldn’t_ , but... I don’t know. I certainly wouldn’t call his system _normal_.”

“After this procedure, does it really matter?”

“Don’t say that. It’s better than _death_.”

“If you say so.”

Questions swirled around in Batman’s head. If he dropped down now he knew he could get them. Without much prompting he was certain the doctors would tell him who they were talking about, what procedure, and why this was happening at one a.m. on a Wednesday night.

But he was Batman. He couldn’t go around interrogating doctors who were just doing their jobs.

“I do. I... he deserves whatever he gets. Peralta should be satisfied with his current status I think, he’s ready for surgery.”

The man lifted up his clipboard. “I don’t know why we have to do this _now_.”

“You know how he gets.”

“Was it okay to just leave him there?”

“I don’t care how _resistant_ he is, there’s no way he’s moving until morning at the latest.”

The doctors kept going but Batman stopped. They were talking about the Joker, they had to be. The Joker, who they’d left in surgery, possibly unconscious, pumped full of whatever drugs they could think of that might actually work on him.

On Peralta’s orders.

The red grew louder, the world grew grayer. Batman dropped down from his perch and stormed towards the Surgery Room. He knew where it was, he’d studied Arkham’s maps extensively, ages ago, when he was still trying to see if Arkham was really an effective solution for the super villains he captured.

He knew the exact way to the Surgery Room, and knew the Medical Facility building was not all that large, but every corridor stretched out so much longer than he remembered. It took him days, weeks, years to get there. Every step a century.

A millennia came and went while he reached out to push open the door.

The room was nearly empty. Against the back wall was a cart full of tools, an IV drip, a few other machines Batman did not recognize on first glance. There was also a hospital bed.

In it, a green-haired someone lay stretched out, paler than the sheets.

The Joker was having trouble breathing. Each inhale sounded strained. He was strapped to the bed with sturdy restraints and they’d somehow gotten him full of enough drugs in just the right combination to knock him out.

For several seconds Batman could not move. His brain could not parse the image of the Joker, the idea that very soon he’d be receiving what seemed like an involuntary surgery, that if he hadn’t followed a hunch, the Joker could have...

Have what? He didn’t know what Peralta was planning. It could be something perfectly ethical. Something to help the Joker. Something to make him not so crazy.

 

When Batman next found himself able to concentrate, he was setting an unconscious Joker down in the passenger seat of the tumbler, and watching the way his head lolled to the side.

The red quietened.

Everything sped back up to real time. It had been hardly a half hour, and he had broken an inmate out of Arkham Asylum. Not just any inmate, one of their most dangerous.

He didn’t look like it though. Not like this. His wrists and neck were bruised, his left eye was swollen shut, and Batman suspected if he lifted his shirt he’d see bruises along his ribs as well, from how labored the Joker sounded inhaling and exhaling.

Whatever anesthesia they’d given him had to be something far outside the bounds of any sort of recommended dosage. Even still, Batman wasn’t sure how long the Joker would be out for.

He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Attila12


	7. Orange Marmalade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has to admit that he no longer knows what he's doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to update my Star Trek fic, but this one spoke to me ;;
> 
> This is currently unbetaed. I'll probably re-read it tomorrow and see all sorts of errors I missed OTL

****The Joker was in Wayne Manor.

Batman was carrying a madman across the same halls his parents had walked in. His pulse was thrumming under the suit, his fingers tensing and relaxing restlessly around the Joker’s side. He forced himself to stop, remembering his theory about the bruises.

He couldn’t put the Joker in the batcave. Not as it was. There was no place to hold him, no place to leave him without the risk of him getting into something he shouldn’t. Which only left the manor.

It was a bad idea. 

The Joker could wake up. He could see him and see the building and _know,_ if the Joker opened his eyes now his identity would be compromised. He should have blindfolded him. 

It felt like he was moving on auto-pilot. Adrenaline wouldn’t fade. He was waiting for the call from Barbara. The one saying Joker had escaped from Arkham and he had to go find him. A call he wouldn’t be able to answer.

Batman wandered the halls for a full twenty minutes before deciding on a place. The door had six interlocking diamonds on it and it was the only guest bedroom on the first floor. There were more like it throughout the house— one with triangles, one with hearts, one with cubes. His mother had apparently thought the guests would like feeling special, with their own suites. The diamond suite, the pyramid suite—

It didn’t matter. 

He couldn’t focus.

Juggling the Joker’s body and trying to open the door was impossible. Batman pushed down on the handle and shoved it open with his foot. 

The room had the air of space underutilized. The dresser had a thin layer of dust on it. The bed was done with red sheets and a thick white comforter. Batman strode across the matching white carpet and laid the Joker back against the red pillows and stared.

The Joker still hadn’t moved. He still breathed with a painful wheeze. 

Something in Bruce’s chest twinged, and he pressed a hand over it. He’d seen the Joker injured before. He’d _injured_ the Joker. Beaten him black and blue. It shouldn’t make him feel so anxious to see the man like this.

“I’m beginning to think I see your problem.”

Batman turned. 

Alfred stood in the door with eyes wider than Bruce had ever seen, and he realized with sudden clarity just what he’d done. 

“It isn’t that you don’t think it’s over. You just don’t want it to be.”

That wasn’t true. The Joker didn’t deserve what they were going to do to him. Peralta didn’t get to decide what he deserved. “Alfred, he needs my help.”

“What have you done, Bruce?”

That was a good question. One he couldn’t answer right now. He turned back to the Joker, watching his green eyelashes for any hint of a flutter. “I’ll take care of it, Alfred.”

He could feel Alfred’s stare. Each second of that stare felt like a dozen IV needles being shoved into one vein, and Batman clenched his teeth. “I’ll take care of it.”

Batman heard Alfred leave. The Joker was still unconscious. Wheezing.

He took a few steps away from the bed, torn between too many voices in his head telling him too many things. 

_What had he done?_

 

An hour later Batman had installed a more efficient lock on the guest bedroom door, and removed the one on the inside. The windows had been sealed shut long ago, as with the rest of the windows in the house, so he wasn’t worried about the Joker getting out that way.

Batman wasn’t going to risk a common thief discovering who he was by accident. 

He’d considered, for a second, handcuffing the criminal to the bed, but he knew it would take the Joker five minutes to get out of them. It wasn’t worth the effort.

For the time being he had a (relatively) Joker proof room, and an unconscious Joker. 

Only then did Batman allow himself to take stock of the man’s injuries. As expected, his ribs didn’t look good. Aside from that, the black eye, the marks on his wrists and ankles, he didn’t appear to be any worse for the wear. If he’d forced himself to be logical, if he’d waited until he had Sharp’s permission to visit the asylum, what would have happened? 

Some part of him wanted to say nothing. The part of him that felt guilt and shame whenever he looked at the man in his guest bed said he had broken a dangerous criminal out of the only facility where he could possibly be contained, and for nothing other than a hunch. 

For the sake of his sanity, Batman pushed that voice to the back of his mind and ignored it. 

Batman brought a dose of pain killers and two bottles of water and set them on the bedside table.

Then he laid out a soft cotton tee which by pure coincidence was the only purple shirt he owned, and a pair of black pajama pants. Just in case the Joker wanted to change out of the Arkham whites when he woke up. 

The voice in the back of Batman’s head screamed louder.

The Joker didn't move the entire time, and he felt just a touch silly doing everything in the suit. Batman turned off the lights, closed and locked the door, and finally pulled off his cowl.

The hall was empty and quiet and for that he was grateful. Bruce wasn’t sure he could deal with Alfred right now. He had a lot to deal with already without Alfred’s judgmental eyes.

He walked to the grand staircase, grateful too for the dark quiet of the manor. It helped him keep his mind calm and clear as he moved methodically to his bedroom.

Only once he was starting to slip out of the suit did Bruce allow himself to really think about the consequences of his actions.

Of course they would assume the Joker had escaped. If Arkham was performing questionable surgeries on their patients then Batman could justify doing something about it, but certainly not how he’d found out, and certainly not breaking the Joker out of Arkham.

He couldn’t just take him back. The Joker wasn’t safe in Arkham.

 _The_ Joker’s _safety isn’t what’s at stake, here._

For now, he would keep the Joker contained. His security was far better than Arkham’s, in any case. He could keep the Joker from hurting anyone. 

_For how long?_

 

Bruce didn’t remember sleeping, but he must have. When he woke up sun was streaming onto his face and it felt like the first bit of restful sleep he’d caught in days. That wasn’t lost on him. He was angry at himself, angry that the times his brain decided sleep could come easy were when he knew exactly where the Joker was and what the Joker was doing. He forced it away. It made sense. It was normal to be anxious over not knowing what a dangerous criminal’s next move was.

Bruce rose, and moved to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. While he stared unblinking at his reflection, the uncertainty and shame and guilt and relief came flooding back.

Relief. The Clown Prince of Crime was in his guest room and he felt relieved. 

Bruce swallowed, pushing that aside for the time being, and moving to put on the batsuit. Normally he would have taken it back to the cave. It was strange to see it hanging on the back of his desk chair. Like Batman had just stepped out for a bit and would be back to reclaim it soon. It felt ridiculous changing in the master bedroom.

He walked down the stairs with purpose, knowing just how much the Joker could get up to if he was left alone for long, knowing the Joker didn’t even know yet where he was, or with who. It was very likely he was already trying to escape. He could imagine it. The Joker waking up in unfamiliar surroundings and trying to tunnel through the wall with one of the mattress springs.

Alfred was standing by the piano, and Bruce had to stop, weighed down enough by the guilt that pooled at the base of his skull that he couldn’t just walk past him.

Alfred took one look at him and sighed. “I saw you reinforced the door.”

Of course. He didn’t want to jeopardize Alfred’s safety. He just hadn’t known what else to do. Saying this felt like it would be admitting too much though, and so instead he said “He’s not getting out of there, Alfred, especially not in his state.”

“I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing.”

He didn’t, but he couldn’t tell Alfred that. He couldn’t even tell himself that. Improvisation was the only tool in his belt now. The Joker had always been better at that than him. 

Alfred disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, and Bruce went the opposite direction, towards the diamond suite. 

As he approached the door, his steps slowed. He listened, and waited, but could hear no noise from inside. Maybe the Joker was still unconscious. Or maybe he was lying in wait to jump whoever walked through the door. Maybe the drugs had proved too much for his system and he’d simply—

No.

Batman pressed in the ten digit passcode, and cautiously opened the door. There was no surprise attack. Batman slipped inside and shut the door behind him, the electronic whir of the lock ringing in his ears as he went very still.

The Joker was sitting up, weight supported by one hand behind him, against the sheets. He was chugging down a water bottle like a college student drinking at a party and one bony ankle rested delicately on the opposite knee.

He was wearing Bruce’s purple shirt and Bruce’s pants, and it was a little hard to breathe, suddenly. The shirt was big on him, just enough to make him look smaller than he really was. 

When the last drop was gone the Joker broke free of the bottle, not bothering to wipe away the rivulets running free down his pointy chin. He turned his head, pinning Batman with impassive eyes.

For a second, Batman felt like he wasn’t wearing the suit at all. He was just Bruce, in Wayne Manor, watching the Joker watch him. It made him want to bolt.

Then the Joker’s eyes hooded, and he smiled, and Batman relaxed infinitesimally. 

“Bats! Nice digs.” It was too normal. Too... too. Too. Joker said it while looking around the room, like he wasn’t even conscious of his injuries, like he hadn’t a care in the world.

Batman felt a surge of anger rise up in him, meeting the normal with more normal. He stormed over to the Joker’s bedside, irritated when the Joker didn’t even flinch, just started squeezing his water bottle and giggling a little at the crackling sound it made. “Why didn’t you tell me the people at Arkham weren’t treating you right?”

That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. After it came out though, he realized just how irritated that fact made him. And just how little sense it would have made for the Joker to tattle to him in the few times they’d encountered each other while he was in Arkham.

The Joker blinked at him, mouth opening and closing like he’d been about to say something, then changed his mind. “Did you expect them to?”

He sounded bewildered, and while Batman would admit _no, he didn’t,_ it didn’t stop his irritation. “What were they doing to you?”

The Joker shrugged, swinging out his leg that was hanging off the bed and lightly kicking Batman’s shin. 

The first time it connected Batman tensed, the second he ignored it, and by the fourth he’d forgotten it was happening.

“Doc had a few treatments he thought would fix my head riiiight up.” The Joker tapped his temple. “I think when he said ‘fix’, he meant it in the way mobsters do, though. I can never understand doctor jargon.”

Batman stared at the Joker’s head, and thought about Peralta walking into the Surgery Room, fully prepared to perform some sort of frontal lobe lobotomy. There had to be a hundred things you could do to the brain to disrupt it’s regular functions. The Joker wouldn’t have died, but he certainly would have been dead.

Batman curled his fingers into his palms, to keep his hands from reaching out. The Joker was sitting right there in front of him, but he still didn’t feel real.

“His therapy was a doozy too! Real _shocking_ stuff!” 

While the Joker giggled at his pun, Bruce took a second to figure out what he meant. Once he had, he narrowed his eyes, imagining Peralta administering electro-shock therapy and touting himself as revolutionary. 

“It tickled.” The Joker laughed, something not quite as manic as usual, tossing his head back, and then coughed, pressing a hand over his ribs. “I knew you’d come for me.” 

The Joker fluttered his eyelashes and Batman wanted to scream. _It tickled?_ “Don’t you care?”

“Of course I care, darling! If I weren’t so dizzy I’d show you just how much—“

Batman stepped closer, until the Joker’s knee was digging into his thigh, and the Joker’s chapped lips and long nose hogged his vision. “They could have scrambled your brains. Would have. No more plans, no more chaos, no more Joker. Don’t you care at all?”

The Joker looked up at him, pursing his lips dramatically. “If they had, I don’t think I would have ‘cared’ about anything at all, really. But they didn’t! No use dwelling on the past.” Joker moved a hand from his own chest to Batman’s, and his lips twisted up. “My Dark Knight wouldn’t let anyone else get their grubby little mitts on me. Because I’m yours. Ooh— what did you do to dear Franklin? I hope you broke a few limbs.”

Batman leaned back, huffing. “You’re not _mine_.” That wasn’t why he’d saved the Joker. And if he wanted to break Peralta’s nose, it had nothing to do with revenge, or some misguided attempt at avenging* his enemy.

“Oh, please,” the Joker scoffed, rolling his wrist. “You’ve got a whole closet full of my old clothes.”

Panic nearly stopped Batman’s heart. “It’s not a closet.” The Joker couldn’t possibly know about his collection.

The Joker giggled, and it built into slightly hysteric laughter. “Well, that’s— that’s one theory proven!” He fell back on the bed, beside himself, clutching his ribs. 

Batman glared down at him. 

“I always did wonder where that jacket went!”

An unfamiliar warmth curled through Batman’s chest, up his neck, across his face. Batman realized with some irritation that he was _embarrassed._  

“Ahaha, ha, hoo... ah... my head.” The Joker let out a sigh, which turned into a wheeze and then he pressed three fingers against his brow.

When the Joker started to rise, Batman pressed a hand to his chest and held him down.

The Joker didn’t fight, just looked up at him with what seemed like genuine confusion, and a little weariness. 

He hadn’t noticed, so caught up in seeing the Joker moving around up close again, but Joker looked tired. Looked like it hurt to talk, to laugh, if the way he’d winced during his fit was any indication. Batman stared down at his hand in the middle of the Joker’s purple shirt and realized belatedly just what he was doing. “You’re in no condition to be moving around so much. You should rest.”

He was telling the Joker to rest. The man he’d injured on countless occasions. He’d given him painkillers and new clothes and had just paid him the first gentle touch of their re— ...acquaintanceship.

No wonder the Joker looked confused.

The Joker stared at him for several long seconds, before his eyes narrowed. His voice came out low and angry. “Ah, since when do you care so much about my ‘condition’? If I’m _nothing_ to you?” 

The shift from the teasing of seconds ago to acid words and narrowed eyes was so sudden Batman startled, removing his hand. He didn’t know how to respond. It sounded like the Joker was referring to something and Batman didn’t know what. 

The Joker watched him a second longer, before shifting, rearranging himself until his head was on the pillow and his knees were drawn up until they were parallel with his hips. “So? You’re going to keep me doped up until you drag me back to Arkham?”

“I’m not taking you back to Arkham.” That much he was sure of. 

The Joker’s mouth twitched down. “Blackgate?”

Batman shook his head, regaining his composure and folding his arms across his chest. “I can’t trust you there.”

The Joker squinted at him, lips twisting in an expression that might have been humorous on anyone else.

It was a second before Batman could go on, not sure how the Joker would react. “I’m keeping you here. You’re too dangerous to let go.”

There was no reaction for several moments. The Joker just stared up at him, and Batman had to think back, wondering if the Joker had always had the power to make him feel so vulnerable. This whole conversation was completely different from what he’d imagined.

Finally, the Joker’s face split into a grin. “Batman’s taking prisoners now.” A chuckle punctuated the words. Then he yawned.

The Joker yawned. His voice rose up then fell in a nonsense syllable, his mouth opened wide and his nose scrunched up, and Batman couldn’t stop staring. 

“I think I’ll take a little nap, Bats. Get me another water, will you?”

He wanted to say that he wasn’t the Joker’s butler, that this wasn’t a hotel, but then green eyes were slipping closed and he looked so peaceful Batman had to turn around and leave.

Once the door locked behind him, Batman stood very still. He hadn’t thought this through. He looked down at the hand that had touched the Joker’s chest, and for the first time, started to question his own motives.

He didn’t know what to do. 

So he headed to the kitchen for another bottled water. 

 _If I’m_ nothing _to you?_

The words echoed. The look on the Joker’s face played on repeat. He sounded hurt. _Hurt_ , like the Joker had _feelings._ Like he’d hurt them. It was absurd.

_You're just another madman trying to take over Gotham. There is nothing special about 'us', because there is no 'us'. I don’t need you. You mean nothing to me._

The memory surfaced abruptly, but Batman shoved it away. It wasn’t related. It couldn’t be. The Joker— 

Water. There were more important things to focus on.

Alfred was in the kitchen when he arrived, cooking a very modest breakfast of eggs and toast. On another day, the sound might have been soothing. Now, the frying pan just sounded angry.

Bruce made it to the refrigerator before Alfred spoke.

“Sir, you can’t seriously be thinking about keeping that monster here for the long term.” Alfred’s tone was clipped. 

Bruce couldn’t blame him. He didn’t have a plan. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Return him to Arkham.”

Bruce shook his head. “You don’t know what they were going to do to him, Alfred. His doctor’s insane.”

Alfred set down the frying pan harder than necessary, and then turned around. 

Bruce could not remember the last time he’d seen Alfred angry. Maybe when he was a child, and had broken his father’s favorite statuette running around the living room.

“He is not your responsibility.” Alfred’s voice was louder than it’s usual, calm register, but it wasn’t quite a shout. 

It still pained Bruce to hear, and he swallowed, looking down at the water bottle in his hand. The Joker wasn’t his responsibility, no. And if it were Quinzel, or Killer Croc, or Scarecrow, or Penguin, he wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have even known, because he wouldn’t have hacked their security camera in the first place.

He certainly wouldn’t have brought them to his home, or given them his clothes. 

Bruce veered his train of thought off course, desperately needing to. He didn’t want to see what lay at the end of those tracks. “I’ll handle it, Alfred. It’ll be fine. I’m... going to build a space in the batcave for him to stay. Temporarily.”

“Is that really wise?”

“I can’t just keep him in the manor.” It was the only short term solution. Keep him locked away. Long term, he didn’t have any good ideas. Send Joker back to Arkham after Peralta was taken care of? Perhaps. How would he explain everything though?

“I don’t think you’re considering the consequences of him being so close.”

Bruce sighed, transferring the water bottle to his other hand, needing to fidget. “He’s not going to kill me, Alfred.”

“You don’t know that.”

Bruce looked up, meeting Alfred’s eyes for the first time since the conversation started. “Yes, I do.” Through the years Joker had had plenty of opportunities to just end it. Particularly during the early days, when Batman wasn’t as polished. But he never had. He never would; because as the Joker himself once said, he was just ‘too much fun.’

“You’re talking about keeping a dangerous lunatic locked up in your home because you don’t trust the facilities built to _hold_ dangerous lunatics.”

“Yes.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes, standing up straighter. “Why not just start your own prison then? Wayne Asylum. I think you could give Arkham a run for their money.”

“Ha ha.” He was tired of arguing the issue. It was done. 

The smell of something burning began to fill the kitchen, and Bruce turned away.

Alfred said nothing else, and so he left.

The Joker would need food soon, but he’d wait until Alfred was done. 

 

A half hour later he brought a grilled cheese sandwich to the Joker’s room— the guest room— and unlocked the door to get inside.

The Joker was in the same position Bruce had left him. He closed the door, and waited, but the Joker didn’t stir. 

Bruce set the sandwich on the table, and waited another full minute, but the Joker didn’t move, and so he left.

 

 

 

When he returned to the room a few hours later, the Joker was asleep, but the sandwich plate was empty, and Bruce felt something inside of him relax.

 

 

 

 

 

“Mr. Wayne I assure you, there are no unsavory experiments going on at Arkham. I don’t know who your anonymous tipper is, but...”

“They’re a very reliable source.” Bruce did not have a hard time keeping up a grave expression. 

All twelve people sitting at the large, dark table in the old Arkham office had their hackles raised.

It was not a good time for Arkham. The Joker was missing, the media was practically frothing at the mouth about him disappearing without a single trace, and Arkham was getting a lot of bad publicity. Not ideal for their top investor to start talking about pulling out.

“If I’m not mistaken, one of Dr. Peralta’s patients escaped a few days ago,” Bruce continued, shooting said doctor a look.

Quincy Sharp cleared his throat, and tugged at his collar where it dug into his throat. “Er, yes, well—”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t the doctor himself who did something to him?”

Murmurs broke out across the otherwise quiet board room, and Peralta jumped up.

“Now wait just a moment! This is absurd! Are you really going to listen to the paranoid delusions of a- a manboy with too much time on his hands?”

Sharp gave Peralta a glare, before turning back to Bruce, and offering a simpering smile. “I _do_ apologize about him.”

Bruce raised his hands. “I don’t want my name tied to this until it’s sorted out. If I have to pull my funds from Arkham, I will.”

“No! No Mr. Wayne, that will not be necessary. We will handle the situation.” Sharp drummed his fingers against the table, then leaned back in his seat.

Peralta gawped at him. “Quincy, you can’t possibly—“

“We’ll discuss this later!”

Bruce rested his hands in his lap, plastering on a look of innocent concern and pretending not to see the glare Peralta leveled at him. 

The man made him sick. Just looking at Peralta made his knuckles itch. Sitting there and acting like he’d done nothing wrong.

From the way the Joker recounted their sessions, his ‘therapy’ had been little more than glorified torture. Not that the Joker seemed to care. That almost bothered Bruce more than the whole lot of it.

Of course, he was positive that, were the Joker freed, his first order of business would be to find Peralta and give him a taste of his own medicine. Bruce would never allow it, but he was hard pressed to say the doctor didn’t deserve it. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.” Bruce rose from his seat, as did Quincy, and two or three other board members.

“Of course, Mr. Wayne, we’ll be in touch.”

 

 

He still didn’t know what the Joker liked to eat. There were frozen peas in the freezer but the Joker didn’t seem like a vegetables kind of guy. He could spend up to an hour thinking about any given meal before reminding himself the Joker would get what food he got and like it.

Two days of wearing the Batsuit during the day and taking it off at night and bringing food and painkillers and water to the Joker. It didn’t feel real.

Most of the time when he went in the room, the Joker was asleep. Bruce had never seen him recuperate after one of their battles, but he imagined it something like this. The Joker sleeping off the aches and pains and Quinzel bringing him his necessities. Not that he was anything like Harleen Quinzel.

The few times the Joker wasn’t sleeping, Bruce tried to make it a point to get in and out before the Joker could get under his skin. Ignoring him was easy when he was relatively incapacitated. 

Eventually Bruce decided on unthawing the peas and slapping a chicken breast in a frying pan. He wasn’t really much of a chef so salt and pepper were his spices of choice. As it sizzled and slowly turned white, Bruce tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was _cooking_ for the _Joker_. 

 _Even criminals get to eat in prison_ , he reminded himself.

Once the simple meal was finished and on a plate Bruce carefully replaced the cowl on his head, and moved to the Joker’s room. The guest room.

This time when he stepped inside, the Joker wasn’t in bed. It wasn’t completely unusual. The Joker made use of the bathroom, after all. But this felt different.

As soon as Batman shut the door, there was a sudden blow to the back of his right knee. 

He grunted, dropping the plate and feeling unbelievably irritated as it hit the ground. All that food, wasted. A moment later he had larger problems though, as an arm looped around his neck. 

Batman yanked at it, whirling around and throwing the Joker off far easier than usual. As soon as he heard the body hit the wall, he regretted it— the Joker was still weak. That couldn’t be good for those ribs. He’d fractured his own enough times to know the pain was serious.

Of course, this didn’t stop the Joker from giggling and righting himself, throwing one punch, then two, both of which Batman dodged easily. 

Before he could try for a third Batman grabbed his hands. “Cut it out,” he insisted with a deep frown. Something was wrong about the words. He shouldn't be treating an attack from Gotham's most notorious criminal as if it were a toddler bouncing a ball against the wall.

“What? I was just having some fun.” The Joker stared at him with wide green eyes, the most alert Batman had seen them in a while. He released the Joker’s hands cautiously, and took a step back, quickly looking the man over. By all accounts, he looked like he was back to normal. But there was something in his posture, not quite as exaggerated as usual, something about the tilt of his head, that told Batman he still had some healing to do.

Even still, seeing the Joker upright and moving made his pulse quicken. 

“You call that fun?”

The Joker advanced, but didn’t attempt any more jabs. “Oh just admit it. This is the first time since our little rendezvous in my cell I’ve seen you with that spark in your eye.”

“You can’t even see my eyes,” Batman argued. The cowl’s eyes were giving off the same glow they always did.

The Joker shrugged. “Tomato, tomato.”

Batman pressed his lips together so he couldn’t do anything like point out the Joker had just said the same thing twice, or smile.

The Joker lifted his fists again, leaning back and wetting his lips. “Come on, Bats. Let’s go at it, just you and me, right here.” For a second, he was the tall, strong, crafty man Batman was so used to chasing through hell and back. Then the Joker blinked too hard, for a moment too long.

Batman shook his head. “You’re still not fully healed.” He couldn’t say he wasn’t tempted. He didn’t know how to deal with the Joker when they weren’t fighting. This was uncharted territory and Batman was navigating blind.

“I’m fiiiiine,” Joker whined, stretching his arms out to prove it. “I can even see out of my eye now!” The swelling of his black eye had indeed gone down, and the color had faded to a yellowish green that didn’t match the Joker’s coloration as well as it should have.

Batman shook his head again. “Get in the bed.” 

The Joker let out a flirtatious growl, like a demented Eartha Kitt. “I like it when you give me orders.”

“Joker, get back in the bed, or I’ll make you.” 

“Either you don’t know me as well as I thought, or you’ve _really_ missed me.”

Batman knew he wasn’t going to get the man to lay down voluntarily. The Joker had never been one for listening. With him, action had always worked better. 

Batman surged forward, but the Joker was more alert than he had given him credit for. He managed an only slightly shaky sidestep, jabbing at Batman’s side as if he were carrying a knife. Batman was only paranoid for a second, but no matter how good the Joker was that would have been impossible. 

“That’s one point for me!” The Joker laughed, but cut himself off abruptly with a disgruntled noise, and Batman knew he’d likely aggravated his ribs. 

He took advantage of the other’s distraction, grabbing the Joker’s arm and pulling him easily into a fireman’s hold. Something tickled his chest when the Joker squealed.

“Unhand me, you brute!” The Joker kicked his legs, but didn’t really put up any effort to get away.

Batman laid the Joker down on the bed, gently, and stared as the clown started to laugh again. The Joker’s hands pressed against his ribs as he giggled himself silly, rolling onto his side. It felt like it should be unnerving— hearing the Joker laugh usually was— but this was his laugh that bubbled forth after he’d told what _he_ felt was a spectacularly funny joke, the laugh that sprung forth when a plan rolled just this side of ridiculous, when Batman decided to go along with a joke for once. This was the laugh that made it feel like it might be okay to laugh with him, and because of that it was his most dangerous.

Batman waited patiently for the Joker to calm, glancing back at the plate he’d dropped once the Joker had finally settled. “Now I have to get you more food,” he pointed out, trying to be annoyed. It shouldn’t have been so hard. 

“Hee hee, aha, oh ho… you know, Bats, I don’t feel much like a prisoner.”

Batman took stock of his expression, making sure it remained stony. “The batcave wasn’t meant to hold prisoners. Preparations need to be—" Suddenly the Joker was laughing again, and Batman cut himself off, startled. “What?”

The Joker wheezed, biting his lip in between words. “You actually… call it the batcave…”

“Shut up. You need to eat, I’ll make you something else.”

“Excellent garçon, I’ll have the filet mignon.” He brought a hand to his face and adjusted a pretend monocle.

Batman moved to pick up the plate, the chicken, and what he could find of the peas. “You’ll get a sandwich and like it.”

“Boring. What kind?”

“Peanut butter and jelly.” Quick and easy. He certainly wasn’t going to turn the stove on again, not after the Joker had wasted his time and energy.

“Got any marmalade?”

Batman paused in picking up the last pea visible in the carpet. When he looked up, the Joker was sitting straight and staring at him. He wasn’t quite sure he’d heard correctly.“What?”

“Orange marmalade, do you have any?”

The Joker liked orange marmalade. Batman filed this information away, carefully, feeling oddly wary that it might be taken away from him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Much obliged, Bats.” The Joker settled back against his pillow, and went quiet.

Batman finished cleaning up after a few more seconds and stood. Their conversations could only be odd, lately. This was so far out of the bounds for them Batman knew he shouldn’t be surprised by it, but he was still waiting for something to blow up in his face. Possibly literally. Perhaps it was because he was injured, but the Joker seemed less insufferable than usual. If he didn’t know any better he’d say the clown was on his best behavior.

Batman turned for the door.

“Oh, and mind bringing me a deck of cards or something? It’s dreadfully boring in here. Not as bad as Arkham, mind you.”

“Cards.”

“Or a puzzle?” The Joker sounded like a hopeful child. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Batman repeated. When he looked over his shoulder, the Joker was watching him with a giddy smile. His lips almost curled up in automatic response, and Batman faced forward, keying in the password as quickly as he could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Oh no now I want to write Stoki AHHHH
> 
> This is about 5,500 words but it feels short? How?
> 
> Also, I wrote the rough draft of part of this chapter late one night on my phone. When I woke up to re-read it I was crying it was so ridiculous I just had to share:
> 
> #Typos  
> “I’m fiiiiiine,” Joker whined, stretching his arms out. I can even see out of my we now!” 
> 
> The Joker growled like a demented, male Eartha Kitt. “I like it when you ice me orders.”
> 
> He surged forward, but the Joker was more alert than Brice ave him credit for. 
> 
>  
> 
> “The bar cave wasn’t made to hold prisoners. Preparations need to be made—“
> 
> “Peanut butter and jelly.” That was the easiest to make, and after spending so much time omg wh first meal he wasn’t eager to invest in it again. 
> 
> Batman blinked. “WhT?”
> 
> “Orange marmalade, got any?@
> 
> “...I’ll se what I can do.”
> 
> Batman knew the Hiker was going easy on him. 
> 
> “Oh, and mind bringing me a deck of cards or something? It’s dreadfully boring in here. {b}Not as bad as RJHAM, mind you.”


	8. Fragments of Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman still doesn’t have a plan for the Joker, who finally seems interested in his freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sort of choppy, but I think I did it on purpose? Maybe?

It took him two weeks to find space in the cave for the Joker’s cage.

Despite how many times he tried to rationalize what he was doing, every so often he had to stop, stare off into the middle distance, and acknowledge that he had kidnapped the Joker from Arkham and was now planning on holding him captive. Criminal or not, that didn’t sound good for Batman.

It was even worse when he got to the issue of how to get the Joker to the batcave without actually letting him see anything in the manor. He’d knocked the Joker unconscious plenty of times before, but for some reason it just seemed odd to stroll into his guest room and bludgeon an injured man until he passed out.

For some reason.

Therefore Bruce thought his next idea the better solution.

“You’re going to blindfold me?” The Joker looked like he was barely holding back laughter, hand pressed against his stomach, teeth biting at his lower lip so fiercely Batman was surprised he hadn’t ripped it open. A few snickers leaked out, and Batman intensified his glare by thirty percent.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you stay in this room forever, did you?”

“You’re so full of surprises lately, hun, I’m not sure what to think.”

Batman hated when the Joker used pet names. ‘Bats’ was already bad enough, but it wasn’t as if ‘Batman’ sounded any less silly. “I didn’t pull you out of Arkham to make your life easier.”

The Joker leaned back against his pillows, one of his legs rising up to press his foot against the bed. “Could have fooled me.” The Joker deepened his voice to a gravel that somehow still managed to sound like a whine. “Oh Joker, how were they treating you? Were you eating right? I was soooooo worried about you!”

Batman grit his teeth. “I wasn’t going to let them kill you.”

The Joker suddenly straightened, staring at him with a head tilted so far to the side Batman wondered if he’d broken his neck doing it. Unfortunately it appeared he hadn’t, as he started talking soon after. “How _did_ you know? Don’t get me wrong, I find your timing to be endearing, though tongue-splittingly annoying at times, but that was a little _too_ perfect.”

Batman folded his arms across his chest, to give himself time to think of the answer. He certainly wasn’t going to tell _the Joker_ that he’d hacked into the surveillance cameras at Arkham, broken in when he’d noticed the Joker hadn’t been to his cell in days, hacked into the computers and nearly ran himself into the ground trying to find the man. Because when it was said like that, it sounded absolutely ridiculous, and incriminating, and he didn’t want the Joker to start going on about that _I’m yours_ nonsense because _he wasn’t._

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back, or else.” Batman held out the blindfold he’d prepared for the occasion, and the special handcuffs he was hoping would take the Joker more than five minutes to break free of.

“Or else what?” The Joker asked in an infuriatingly eager tone. “I have to know my options here, Bats.”

“Or else I’ll make you.”

“See, that sounds like so much more fun.”

Batman barely held back a sigh. The Joker leapt at any opportunity to pick a fight. He supposed he should have been expecting this. Normally he would have been eager to get his hands on the man— to punch him— but it felt counterproductive to damage him further when he’d specifically brought him here to heal.

Batman attached the cuffs to his utility belt, and looped the blindfold around his palm as he grunted, “Fine, have it your way.”

The Joker squealed, jumping up onto the bed and striking some terrible imitation of a kung fu pose. “I always do, Batman!”

Batman walked forwards with purpose, intent on ending this quickly, but the Joker was quick, and two weeks had done a marvel on his recovery. He jumped off the bed and landed on his feet on the other side just as Batman grabbed at his legs, leaving the vigilante half perched on the sheets and glaring.

“Over here,” Joker taunted, coyly beckoning with one finger.

Batman waited two beats, and then lunged. It took longer to scramble over the bed than he would have liked, and the Joker was already taking off, towards the door to the bathroom, as there wasn’t anywhere else to run. He threw it shut behind him, but Batman stopped it with his foot, kicking it open and storming inside.

He was greeted by a jet of mercilessly cold water from the detachable shower head.

The Joker howled with laughter.

Batman sputtered and fought through the stream towards the sound, reaching out in front of him. He found the Joker’s wrist and clamped his fingers around it, squeezed.

Joker wasn’t even trying to get away anymore, seeming content with just getting his enemy as soaked and miserable as possible. He was laughing so hard Batman swore he could see down the Joker’s throat.

They moved back in a slick dance over beige tiles until Joker tripped on the edge of the bathtub and tumbled inside, taking Batman down with him. Batman caught himself with one knee on the edge of the tub, and finally managed to rip the shower head away from the Joker. He turned the weapon against the clown as he tried to lean up and take the it back with pinching fingers and giddy eyes.

The Joker sputtered out a perfect PBBTHHH, then laughed, then choked, then laughed again, inching away from the water by sprawling out in the tub until he was squirming around on his back, still trying to escape. “So water torture is what you’re into these- PBBTHTHTHH! Is this _wetting your whistle_ — PBHHEHHATHH— I like a man who— PBTHAHAH!”

The curtains, the bath mat, the deep brown sink cabinets, everything was covered in a fine sheen of water. Including of course, himself. Batman stared down at the Joker, who was futilely trying to fight off the attack with open palms and failing legs. A puddle had formed underneath him, his green hair drifting lazily, his cotton shirt clinging to his pale skin.

By the time Batman finally reached behind him and turned off the water, the Joker was panting and shivering underneath him, a few giggles still slipping past his lips. His eyelashes were clumped together and his cheeks were just faintly rosy with exertion. Every so often his sharp pink tongue would flick out and lick away the water on the side of his mouth. His eyes twitched up and his lips curled up into a smirk, as if he could see right through the cowl, right through Bruce’s skull, straight into his mind.

Batman flipped him over and cuffed him, trying to raise up the appropriate amount of anger about being soaking wet and then managing a different kind of anger when he found he couldn’t.

“See, wasn’t that more fun?”

Batman tied the blindfold roughly on to the Joker’s head and didn’t answer, just in case the clown really had seen into his head, and would be able to tell if he was lying.

 

The Joker prowled around the cage he’d been put into like a picky wife touring a potential house with her husband, tapping a finger against his lips. The cage was fifteen feet by fifteen feet, had a bed, a toilet, and a shower.

Batman had been forced to build it around the small bathroom he had in the batcave in case of emergencies, which meant he’d no longer be able to use it, but it was all he could think to do on short notice. There were four walls and no ceiling, the door and the corner supports the only parts not made of thick plexiglass.

“Hmmm. Not enough closet space,” was the verdict.

Batman snorted.

“So!“ The Joker clapped his hands together, sending water droplets flying.

The both of them were still soaked, and Batman knew Alfred would not be happy to see the mess he’d left behind dragging a wet, flailing, blindfolded Joker through the manor.

“Would you like to make a bet on how long it takes me to get out of here?”

Something in Batman simmered, something low and hot that he hadn’t felt in some time. “I thought you weren’t interested in escape.”

The Joker turned and folded his hands under his chin. “That was before you showed me how much you care!”

“I don’t care.”

“How can you say that when you’ve practically forced me to move in with you. To the _batcave_.” The last word was complete with finger quotes. The Joker snickered, pacing along the perimeter of the cage with long strides. Each movement was accompanied with a wet sound, and Batman reluctantly admitted he’d have to bring down more clothes. Heaven forbid the Joker catch a cold. He could only imagine it.

 _I said I wanted_ twisty _noodles in my soup! And why aren’t there smiley faces in these carrot medallions!_

_My head hurts, read me a story._

_Why sneeze in_ my _elbow when_ yours _is right there?_

“You’re not moving in with me, you’re my prisoner,” Batman corrected.

The Joker whipped around to smile at him, harsh and sudden. “And since when does Batman take prisoners? Actions can speak louder than words, Bats. Weird, huh? Since you can actually hear words. I suppose you can hear actions too, depending on—”

Batman cut the Joker off, before his rambling could get any farther. “You’re just staying here until I figure out what to do with you.”

“I’m just staying here until I figure my way out.”

“You’re not getting out. I’m the only one who can get in or out of here.”

“I love a challenge.”

Batman glared, moving towards the door. “I’ll be watching you.”

“Kinky.”

The lock on this cage required a scan of his eye, and the walls were reinforced glass, and there was no way the Joker was escaping. Even so, Batman felt wary as he watched the door close, the Joker on the other side. Batman heard a pleased noise that was a mix between a squeal and a giggle, and thought to himself that Joker must have found the puzzle.

Batman reminded himself he’d only put it in there in the hopes of winning a few hours of blessed silence. He glanced over his shoulder, and the Joker waved like he was only going off on some grand vacation instead of being imprisoned. Then the Joker began to undress.

He tugged off his soaked shirt with some difficulty, nearly blinding the vigilante with inches, feet, miles of pale skin, and a startlingly green happy trail. For a second Batman remained frozen mid-step, and then he immediately moved back to the door. “What are you doing?”

The Joker didn’t look at him, even though Batman knew he had to have heard him. The eye scanner wasn’t working quick enough, and he had to get inside, had to _stop_ that madman, before he did something crazy, like remove his underwear. Which was Bruce’s underwear. Batman swallowed, throat suddenly feeling a little dry.

Once the door slid open Batman stomped over just as the Joker’s thumbs slipped into his pants. “What are you doing?” He barked again, and the Joker gave him an amused look.

“I’m cold.”

“What?”

“You got me all wet,” the Joker said, in a tone that did nothing to properly imply what had happened, and made all of Batman’s muscles tense. “I thought I’d make use of that lovely shower. Or is it just for show?”

The Joker had no shame. “Wait until I leave.”

The Joker laughed. “You’ll be _watching_ anyway, right?”

Batman stood resolutely still, in the hopes that him doing so would persuade the Joker into remaining still as well, instead of sliding down his pants, like he seemed intent on doing. “There aren’t any cameras in the shower.”

He wasn’t stopping. Batman grabbed one of his wrists, bony in his grip, and the Joker snickered.

“You are too much, sugarplum. Are you really that much of a prude, or are you just worried you’ll be too temped to join me once I’m naked?”

Batman hadn’t ever wanted to imagine the Joker naked, in any capacity. Now the idea was in his head and the image of those pale, long limbs and that wiry body made his stomach churn. With nausea, of course.

He realized abruptly what little sense it made for him to bodily prevent the Joker from undressing, the same time he realized he was staring at the Joker’s navel. Joker had an innie, so deep the back was nothing but a dark mystery. He had never wanted to know what the Joker’s bellybutton looked like, and now he did, and he didn’t know what to do with that information.

He released the Joker’s wrist and his hand felt so empty he had to curl his fingers into his palm. When he brought his eyes back to the Joker’s face he found him grinning.

Joker brought his hands to his pants again and Batman turned and walked out to the sound of the Joker’s laughter.

He left the cave completely and went up to his room and did not think about the Joker or skin or showers.

 

 

It felt odd going out that night. Knowing for a fact that the biggest thorn in his side was locked neatly away in his own home. It was different from knowing he was in Arkham. Maybe because he knew the moment the Joker made a move his computer would alert him to it.

It was like everything had been painted in shades of dull relief. The air was cool but not cold, the sky was dark but not black. He couldn’t explain it.

He found what he was looking for immediately— the bat signal had been in the sky every night since the Joker ‘escaped.’

“Commissioner,” Batman greeted as he swung on to the roof. Barbara didn’t move from where she stood near the spotlight, entirely still save for the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders.

“Batman. Any news?”

Batman strode closer, so their conversation could be held at a normal speaking level. “I’m handling it.”

“What does that mean? ‘You’re handling it’?” Barbara’s tone shifted into something with just a hint of suspicion.

Barbara stared at him, arms folded tightly across her bulletproof vest. Even in the dark of the night Batman could tell she hadn’t slept in days. He couldn’t blame her for looking haggard, when Gotham’s most notorious criminal was loose and unaccounted for. “It means I’m handling it. Leave the Joker to me.”

“Do you know where he is?” Barbara pressed.

“No, but I know him. I’ll find him eventually and when I do, I’ll handle it.” He couldn’t very well tell Barbara the Joker was currently sitting tight in the batcave. He didn’t know what she’d say, and he didn’t want to find out.

He knew the commissioner was frustrated, like the rest of the police force, like the city. It was unlike the Joker to disappear without a trace, without a _bang_ , and everyone was waiting for the punchline.

“We’re counting on you, Batman.” The words sounded forced.

He put on his most reassuring voice, and said, “I’ll find him.”

After a short pause the red-head seemed to deflate, her arms falling to her sides and her shoulders drooping. “Maybe if we’re lucky, there won’t be anything to find.”

Batman stopped himself before he could respond to that. He’d heard the theory floating around— that Arkham had finally done what everyone thought they should have years ago and put the Joker out of his misery. Every time he heard it Batman felt sick. Gotham’s citizens shouldn’t be encouraging a hospital to execute their patients. No matter what that patient had done. “The Joker’s slippery. I wouldn’t count on it.”

Barbara sighed, nodding. “I’m not. Tell me the _moment_ you know something, understand?”

“I’ll tell you when there’s something to tell.” Batman turned and walked towards the edge of the roof.

Barbara said nothing else as he leaped off.

 

 

The Joker only showered once every two days. Batman wasn’t sure if the fact that he’d noticed this pattern was a testament to his observational skills, or more proof he still hadn’t figured out what to do with the man.

Batman tried not to acknowledge or talk to the Joker, but it was nearly impossible. The Joker was in his workspace. More often than not he’d be dragged into an argument, or forced to listen to the Joker ramble on about nothing in particular— or even worse— _something_.

The only saving grace was the cage helped Batman stamp down the urge to get physical with him. Rough. No, to— the urge to hurt him.

 

The Joker hadn’t been kidding about escaping. Whenever Bruce checked the security footage from the times he was away, the Joker was meticulously going over every inch of the cage, searching for weak points. Bruce knew he wouldn’t find any, but the act made him nervous. The Joker was creative, and far more intelligent than he looked. If anyone could figure out how to get out of the Batcave, it would be him.

 

Batman was typing out notes on Crane when the Joker abruptly demanded “I want real clothes. And my makeup.”

Batman looked over at him for a long moment, taking in the white shirt and gray sweatpants he wore, more of Bruce’s things. It occurred to him just how long it had been since he’d seen the Joker in his usual get up. The purple suit with the long tails, the stripes, the garish vests, the ruffled cuffs.

If the way he dressed when left to his own devices was any indication, the Joker was a very image conscious man.

Arm garters, spats, cuff links, the whole shebang, and he did it knowing it was only going to get destroyed by blood and concrete and fire.

Batman turned back towards his computer. “You’re not in a position to be making demands.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Joker press himself against the glass. “Oh come on, Bats, what does it hurt to get me my makeup? Do you think I’m going to break out of this cage with a tube of lipstick? Flattering, but not even I’m that good.”

Batman pressed his lips together, his fingers stalling over the keyboard. He was much better at multi-tasking when the Joker wasn’t present. “They wipe off your makeup in Arkham for a reason. I’m not going to enable your delusions.”

“My delusions of what?”

Batman chose not to answer. He’d only said it in the first place because it seemed like he should.

“We aren’t so different, I and you,” the Joker went on, and Batman turned to glare.

“It’s you and I.” He heard an echo, and was startled to realize the Joker had said the same thing in his own ‘Batman’ voice, and was now staring at him smugly. Batman turned back towards his computer and set about ignoring his unfortunate company.

“We both have our masks.” The Joker’s voice had dropped to a low purr, just barely loud enough to hear, yet strong enough to crawl inside the space between the collar of Batman’s suit and his skin.

“I wear a mask to protect my identity.”

“I’m not talking about your little armored face plate, Bats. I’m talking about whatever’s underneath that. See, wipe off my makeup and I’m still the Joker. I’m still me. Take off your cowl and who are you?”

Batman’s fingers stalled again. The Joker always knew just what to say, just enough to make it seem like he knew more than he really did.

Batman knew who he was. Bruce knew who he was. The distinction between those two thoughts made him grit his teeth.

“That was a rhetorical question by the way, buttercup. I have no interest in whatever everyman you’ve got underneath all that kevlar.”

Batman stood. It was clear he wouldn’t be getting any work done today.

As he was walking to the elevator, the Joker shouted “My makeup, Batman! Most prisons reward people for good behavior!”

He wanted to argue that the Joker’s behavior was far from good, but recognized humoring him couldn’t result in anything positive.

 

 

The Joker was very good at remaining very still. It had taken Bruce several times of watching this phenomenon— the Joker sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together— before he realized the man was thinking. He could almost guarantee that most of the Joker’s actions were based on spur of the moment decisions. Those were pain enough to clean up. When the Joker really put _thought_ into something, that was the time to be wary.

 

The Joker slept on average four hours a night. Batman didn’t know where he got his energy from, or if this routine was even indicative of how he spent his nights when he wasn’t locked up, but it was a marvel.

 

The Joker’s fourth escape attempt was over the walls of the cage while Bruce was at a meeting for Wayne Enterprises. He somehow managed to turn his bed— the bed that had been bolted to the floor— on it’s side to climb up and over. Then he’d learned the hard way about the electric current running through the thin wires resting up there. He’d jumped back and clear off the bed frame, crashing onto the ground and rolling and cursing and it had taken a lot of effort for Bruce not to smile while he watched the footage.

 

 

 

The sandwich was still there.

Batman glared at the Joker, who was laying on his stomach, kicking his feet childishly in the air while he rapidly put together the 1000 piece puzzle Batman had left in his cage. It was his fifth time completing it. Batman had considered getting another one, but the Joker hadn’t asked, and it felt strange to go get one without prompting.

“Eat your dinner.”

“Get me my makeup.”

It had been the same thing all evening.

Batman growled in frustration, and the Joker paused his feet in midair.

“I never thought I’d hear you make that noise over me refusing a sandwich.”

“I’m not getting you makeup, Joker.”

“I’m not eating your stupid sandwich.”

“That’s— you’re being childish.”

The Joker laughed, going back to putting together the puzzle. Batman firmly believed that he really would starve himself over something as silly as lipstick. An image was conjured in his mind suddenly, of the Joker’s apple-red mouth, glossy and thin, stretched around a laugh.

Batman wet his lips, sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly. When he opened his eyes again the Joker was standing next to the glass, watching him with a tilted head.

“You’re looking a little stressed.” That was the understatement of the century. “Come on, big guy, I know you want it.”

“Want what?”

The Joker grinned, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

Batman swore the Joker had developed that tic specifically to piss him off.

“ _The game._ Give me my makeup. My suit. It’ll be like old times until we make new ones. Stop skulking around and come get me already.”

The words were oddly disgruntling. “I already have you.” Batman folded his arms across his chest, intent on turning, on ending the conversation there. Of course, the Joker had to ruin that plan.

“I know what you _crave,_ Bats. What you _hunger for_. Come on, I want you to do it. Rough me up a little. Or a lot. Put those hands around my throat, we all know how much you love that. Release some ah… tension.”

“ _What_ are you talking about?” Sometimes the Joker could talk at him for minutes at a time and Batman had no idea what the hell he was saying.

This wasn’t one of those times.

The Joker knew it too, if his sly smile was any indication. He lifted his hands and pressed them against the glass, and then his forehead followed. “Has ickle Batsy been feeling a little… frustrated, since his favorite toy was put away? That’s okay, Joker will make it aaaaall better.”

“Shut up.”

“It kills you doesn’t it, having me so close yet stiiiiill so far—“

“I said _shut up._ ”

“All you want to do is storm in here and throw me down but ah, those _pesky morals_.”

For half a second, Batman was in serious danger of charging the cage. It felt like there were electric pulses under his skin, urging him on with sharp jolts. The Joker’s face seemed suddenly magnified ten fold, and he could see all too clearly his knuckles smashing into that cheeky cheek, hear the clown’s groan, feel the way he would jerk against him—

Then Batman took another deep breath, and forced his head to clear. “If I get you your makeup, will you shut up?”

The Joker straightened with wide seaweed eyes and bobbed his head up and down once. “Oh yes sir, I’ll be good!”

Batman stormed out of the cave, and told himself that sometimes humoring the Joker was the only way to keep himself sane.

The Joker had better eat that whole god damn sandwich when he got back.


	9. Dynamite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman loses his temper and Bruce loses his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short, but worth it, I promise. You might notice I changed the chapter count, I'm blowing through my outline faster than I thought I would!

****There was a bag with _Dynamite Red_ lipstick inside on his kitchen counter. Every time Bruce saw it his mind conjured up the memory of the aggravating time he’d had at the store, the saleswoman chattering on about how his  _lovely lady_ was _so lucky_ to have a man who remembered her preferences.

Nevermind how Bruce knew that _Dynamite Red_ was the Joker’s preferred shade. Despite going through all the trouble, he couldn’t stop the voice inside his head shouting _WHAT ARE YOU DOING._  

He didn’t have to give the Joker his makeup. Not whatever it was he put on his face to make it look so smooth and white, or the stupid Dynamite Red. The Joker was his prisoner, and shouldn’t be able to manipulate him into buying _puzzles_ and _orange marmalade_.

 _He didn’t manipulate you_ , the voice in his head growled, _He just asked._

That made it worse. 

“Maybelline, sir?”

Bruce took in a deep breath at the sound of Alfred’s voice, wondering if this poor timing was punishment for his poor judgement.

“I trust it’s not for you.”

“I’m not going to give it to him, Alfred.” Bruce turned, and upon seeing Alfred behind him realized just how long it had been since he’d interacted with the man. He would go so far as to say they hadn’t had a conversation since the Joker was locked in the cage.

“Then why did you purchase it?”

Bruce blurted “Leverage” a second too late.

“I see.”

He didn’t have to explain things to Alfred. But the fact that he _couldn’t_ aggravated him. It was much harder to just ignore his apprehensions about everything he was doing when Alfred gave him that disapproving stare.

As if sensing he wasn’t going to say anything else, Alfred turned and strolled out of the kitchen. Bruce stared after him, and then looked back down to the bag of lipstick. 

He wasn’t going to give it to the Joker. 

 

“Bats! You shouldn’t have!” The Joker crowed after a four minute laughing fit. 

Batman stared at him as he fished the tube of lipstick out of the bag, looking it over. He went very still, and then giggled a few more times, tossing an infuriating look through the glass that Batman wanted to erase. 

He couldn’t let the Joker starve, he reasoned. It was a simple request and otherwise he was going to throw away lipstick that had been more expensive than it had any right to be.

The Joker popped the cap off the tube and brought it to his mouth, applying the lipstick with a couple smooth passes, the red leaking off the corners of his wide mouth. Then it was done. 

A handful of seconds. The lipstick shouldn’t have made a difference. It did. Batman blinked hard once, then twice.

The Joker grinned his toothy grin, the one that said _I wanna play a game_.* It was a half step closer to the Joker he chased over rooftops, and something in Batman’s stomach churned so fiercely he had to turn his back on the sight.

It must have been something he ate. Or didn’t eat. When was the last time he’d eaten? “Now, eat the sandwich.”

“Oh, I ate that as soon as you left. I was starving!”

Batman whipped around, fury drenching him like a fire hydrant. The Joker laughed, and laughed, his bright red mouth stretching around the sounds, eyes smears of black they were shut so tight. 

The laugh cut off abruptly. 

When Batman next blinked he was standing in front of the Joker, a hand clamped around that smooth white throat. 

It disoriented him, because he didn’t remember moving. He just remembered thinking he had to _stop_ that noise, had to _control_ that mouth—

The Joker let out a choked noise— he was still fucking smiling— and then kneed Batman hard enough to make him stumble back. 

A few muted giggles left the clown’s lips, and he rolled his shoulders, watching Batman with wide, alert eyes, fingers twitching in anticipation. 

And there he was. _The Joker_. _Dynamite-Red_ -mouthed. Ready to pick a fight.“There you are,” Joker cooed, cracking his knuckles. “I missed you!”

There was no point in fighting. Batman let out a breath, realizing he’d been holding it. The Joker was detained. He couldn’t do anything until he was freed, couldn’t hurt the people of Gotham. If they fought now all it would show was Batman’s lack of self control. 

So he turned and moved towards the door with long, swift strides. 

The Joker kicked his ass. Literally.

Batman turned with a warning growl, and was met with another kick, this time to the chest. His back hit the door to the cage, and he ducked out of the way of another attack, swiping out a leg and scooping the Joker’s feet out from underneath him.

The Joker howled with laughter as he went down, and Batman leaped on him, grabbing around the Joker’s ankle and yanking him closer. The Joker’s free leg snapped out and caught him in the face, making the cowl’s vision wink for long seconds. He grunted, taking hold of that ankle as well and moving closer.

The Joker punched his gut and he retaliated by mimicking the action. A thrill of satisfaction ran through him at the winded noise it caused. He was in full armor, the Joker was wearing a green t-shirt and jeans. He’d probably re-injured his ribs. The spot would probably bruise. 

A swell of heat seemed to flood the room, and made Batman exhale, made his nostrils flare.

Batman reared his fist back again and this time aimed for the Joker’s cheek. The moment it connected, Batman’s heart kicked up its tempo. The Joker’s head snapped to the side with a noise that resonated heavy in his stomach, and Batman took the opportunity to pin the Joker’s wrists to the ground. 

His eyes traced the ‘O’ of the Joker’s open mouth, the way his jaw quivered. 

He needed to be subdued. Batman would subdue him, and then leave before the pointless fight could escalate any further.

The head butt caught Batman off guard. He jerked back, glowering at the Joker’s all too amused face, and moved one hand from its spot to shove the Joker’s head down, grinding his face against the pockmarked floor. They’d barely tussled for five minutes and he was breathing like he’d run a mile. 

The Joker bucked underneath him and Batman used his weight to hold him against the ground, struggling to capture wiry wrists in one hand. The Joker wrapped long legs around his waist and squeezed hard enough to hurt, and Batman finally managed to wrench one of Joker’s arms back above his head and slam it down.

It wasn’t until the Joker moaned, and caught Batman’s thumb between his teeth that Batman noticed something was _wrong._

His pulse was racing. He was breathing too hard, and was too warm for the comparatively small amount of fighting they’d done. 

He should have been worried the Joker would try to bite his thumb off. Instead he watched as the Joker’s pink tongue swirled around the gloved digit. Those sharp teeth dug down just enough to feel.

Batman stopped breathing. The Joker didn’t. Batman could hear his labored breaths, feel the rise and fall of the narrow chest underneath his. Feel narrow hips shifting against him. It wasn’t until another low groan tumbled from the Joker’s red, red mouth that Batman noticed the way his suit felt uncomfortably tight.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. The weight of the current reality tilted his world sideways.

He had to run. But running would be admitting something he wasn’t ready— wasn’t capable of admitting in that moment. So he ignored the parts of him that wanted to rip away, to gag, to hit the Joker again, and again— and just stood. Slowly.

The batcave was silent. Silent enough that each one of the Joker’s lewd breaths echoed in his skull and made the heat in his stomach burn brighter.

The Joker let him go without resisting. His legs slid off Batman’s hips, feet hitting the floor with a dull noise. He was hard, too. Batman didn’t need to know that, and he was angry with himself for looking.

Then the Joker opened his eyes. They were magnetic. Batman could not move, and could not figure out a way to unlock his throat, did not even know what he’d say if he could.

The Joker’s smile was light, lackadaisical. “What’s the matter, Bats? Finished already? I guess we’re not as young as we used to be.”

Bruce fled.

The Joker’s laughter sounded like it came from far, far away, Bruce couldn’t be sure if it was really there or in his head. 

He walked to the door, and walked through the cave, and walked to the elevator, but as soon as he reached the manor he began running.

As if he could somehow escape the memory of the Joker trapped underneath him. Bruce ripped the cowl off his head and sucked in a giant gulp of air, then another. 

There wasn’t enough air in all of Gotham. 

He made it to his room despite the dizzy, panicked state of his thoughts. He slammed the door behind himself then jumped at the noise.

He was still hard.

It wasn’t because of the Joker, not the Joker, never the Joker. 

It hit him in a rush.

The Joker was _serious_. He’d been serious the whole time. All their previous encounters flashed in his mind. The shameless flirting, the vulgar jokes, _Taking down my boys, that’s the foreplay. Saving people and playing hero, that’s just the ah, poist-coital nap. No, what you do this for, what_ gets you off _, is_ us _. Our little trysts._

He shed the batsuit on the spot.

Bruce shook his head, and kept shaking it until the world righted itself. He stumbled towards the bathroom, but stopped so hard he nearly fell over at the sight of the shower.

It made thoughts of the Joker soaked and giggling surface to the forefront of his mind.

The Joker could have been messing with him. He wouldn’t put it past the Joker to get an erection just to freak him out.

That didn’t explain his own reaction, though.

Batman was not a sexual creature. He was a symbol.

And the Joker was not arousing. He was the furthest thing from any person Bruce Wayne had ever wanted. He was stringy, seaweed green hair and neon-green eyes and sharp angles and _wrong._

Bruce turned away from the bathroom and the shower, moving instead to his desk, and slumping down in his chair.

It didn’t mean anything. It was just the adrenaline. Right now the Joker was laughing and patting himself on the back because he’d made Batman flee.

Bruce had to know. He needed to understand the gag.

He opened up the surveillance feed from the cave, ignoring the way his fingers shook over the keys. It took ages to load, long enough that the shock was starting to fade, making the heat in his gut, the want in each twitch of his fingers all the more apparent. 

Bruce did so well at ignoring it he started to feel numb.

The Joker was laughing. It was a quiet chuckle, just barely picked up by the mics in the cage. The Joker was falling back on the bed, using his feet to push himself further up, not even stopping when his head knocked the pillow off the other end. 

The Joker was pushing his shirt up with one hand, and caressing his stomach with the other. The laughter gradually quietened into slightly uneven breathing that Bruce couldn’t hear no matter how high he turned up the volume. He could just see it in the staggered rise and fall of the Joker’s scrawny chest. Where did all that strength come from?

Then the Joker reached down, and unbuttoned the fly of his jeans. Bruce’s jeans, that were too big on him anyway. One good tug would have pulled them off his hips. 

That wasn’t the point.

The Joker shoved down his underwear, and his erection bobbed towards his stomach. Only then did what was happening register in Bruce’s head. 

Bruce let out a strangled noise, and his eyes shot open so wide, so fast, it hurt. His fingers jerked over the keyboard, ready to pound in the shortcut that would make the video disappear from his field of vision. They were ready, but Bruce’s brain was stalled, unable to tell them what to do.

The Joker moved up a hand close to his face and licked his palm. When he pulled it away his _Dynamite Red_ lipstick was smudged. Bruce couldn’t look away from it. He didn't even know what the words 'look away' meant. 

Not until the Joker wrapped his long fingers around his long length and start to stroke.

Bruce had so many warnings firing off in his head at once it was impossible to hear all of them. It was just noise, white noise, and it meant nothing, not when he couldn’t untangle individually each and every single thing that he knew was _wrong_ with this.

Then the Joker groaned, and the sound cut through the static in Bruce’s head, and cut through the numb feeling he’d tricked himself into believing was real. 

Suddenly Bruce was too warm— no, hot, and _so hard_ , and he couldn’t stand himself, or the Joker, couldn’t stand how good it felt just _watching_. _Watching._ Because he could imagine that lipstick-stained hand around him. He could imagine those too thin lips parting, imagine that pink tongue—

The Joker turned his head and stared straight at the camera that he couldn’t know was there. Clover green eyes seemed to meet his and every muscle in Bruce’s legs tensed. Heat so intense it made him gasp flooded his body.

No, no, no no no no no no _no_.

Bruce stood up so quick his chair toppled over, whipping away from the computer on shaky legs. It was a bad idea. He couldn’t remember why he’d needed to see the surveillance footage so bad. He was full of bad ideas and bad thoughts and bad wants, needs.

Bruce was four steps away from his desk before he heard a strained “ _Bats_ ” through the speakers, and it was his undoing. He grunted, struggling to stay upright while his aching arousal jerked and started weeping. Bruce palmed himself, then squeezed the base, trying to prevent the inevitable. 

The Joker let out something between a whine and a growl and instead of helping Bruce’s traitorous hand only made things worse, scrambling inside of his underwear. He crumbled to his knees, and it took one, two cum-slick strokes before he was painting his fist with long ropes of seed, grinding his forehead into the floor.

Bruce panted hard, forcing his eyes open. 

_What’s the matter, Bats? Finished already?_

“No.”

It was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. None of the scenarios he’d pictured happening from keeping the Joker in the batcave had ended this way. 

“No.”

Bruce flinched when the Joker erupted into giggles, lewd, breathy giggles— who _giggled_ while they got themselves off?

Bruce forced himself to stand. To walk over to the computer and jam his finger into the off button so hard he was surprised it didn’t break.

Then he needed it to break. He had to break something. Like he’d broken. Bruce slammed his fist down on his keyboard, and then did it again, and then picked up his fallen desk chair and tossed it into the wall.

It hit with a groan and tumbled to the floor, and left Bruce feeling no better.

The evidence of what he’d just done on his palm, dripping down his thighs, was too much to handle. 

He would confront the issue later. He needed to not exist in a world where the Joker had gotten him off stupendously without even being in the same room. It hadn’t happened. He’d just been pent up, lately. Frustrated. It wasn’t the Joker. _Never the Joker._

Bruce stomped inside the bathroom and the shower did not remind him of anything. He yanked his filthy briefs down and left them on the floor, turning the knobs until he was drowning underneath a waterfall of ice.

Denial was hard, when you were trying to scrub the proof of what you wanted to deny off of your skin. It was hard when the Joker’s groan was still echoing in his head, and lipstick smudged palms floated around in his mind’s eye.

He’d heard the Joker groan before, but not like that. Not like that. 

“Fuck.”

 

Bruce turned off the water and stepped out shivering. 

For several long moments he stood there, just stood, staring at the floor and not seeing. 

 

He needed to think. He needed to think, but he was afraid to. 

 

 

It didn’t matter. The Joker wouldn’t know. No one would know. He should pretend it had never happened. 

 

But he couldn’t.

 

 

 

 

That night, in the hour before it was truly morning but far after the sun had set, Bruce donned the batsuit and went down to the cave. 

Bruce knew the Joker was awake before he got the door open, and as soon as he stepped inside their eyes locked. Batman suppressed a shiver.

“Hiya, Bats.” 

Batman shot him in the arm.

The tranquilizer worked immediately. Something he’d designed specifically for the Joker and his freakish biology a long time ago. The Joker shuddered, then his head dropped back onto the bed, mouth hanging open just so.

It took effort not to allow himself to simply take in a rare moment of the Joker completely still. Not so rare, recently. Batman had not realized until that moment just how _aware_ of the Joker he was. It felt like he knew every nook, corner, every perfect imperfection the clown’s long body had to offer. The barely there scar on the peek of stomach his shirt revealed was from a batarang just barely avoided. He was still ghostly pale but up close Batman could see the parts of his skin that were slightly discolored, hints of a more natural tone struggling to break through the chemically damaged flesh.

The Joker had reapplied his lipstick.

Bruce picked him up very carefully, to avoid as much contact as possible. He took him to the tumbler and slid him into the passenger seat, a sight so familiar it ached.

Then he shot off into the dark like an inmate from Arkham out of their cell. Batman drove all the way to Amusement mile without stopping or slowing, and then he placed the Joker’s body in the first quiet alley he found. 

He left.

 

It was done.

 

 

The Joker was gone. 

 

 

 

Away.

Somewhere he couldn't tempt him just by existing.

 

 

Batman went home.

He did not think about what he’d just unleashed upon the city. He did not feel guilt, or shame, or humiliation, because those emotions were for the light. For Bruce.

Instead he went to the batcave and began deleting all the surveillance footage he’d taken of the Joker in the cage. It couldn’t stay in his files. The thought of keeping any of it, even before that afternoon, made him feel nauseous. 

Even so. When he got to the footage of Joker bucking into one fist, the other tangled in his hair, Batman watched. He wanted to prove the Joker did not have that sort of effect on him. He had to.

Without guilt, shame, or humiliation. It would come, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

The Joker slid his palm over the head of his cock, and that drew a guttural noise from his smudged red lips, a noise that sparked something deep in Batman’s gut.

The Joker kicked off Bruce’s jeans and fucked into his fist with abandon. He came with Batman’s name on his lips. He twitched in Bruce’s bed and spilled all over his fist and stomach and Bruce’s sheets.

He panted, and then laughed and laughed and laughed until Batman deleted that footage, too.

Batman couldn't prove anything.

Bruce shed the batsuit and returned to the manor. 

He laid in bed and pretended to sleep. As soon as the first tendrils of light creeped through the window it came. Guilt bubbled into his mind and pushed against his skull until the pressure threatened to crack it. Shame made his body heavy, made him unable to move, unable to do anything but pull the covers further up over his head. Humiliation prevented him from imagining just what would happen when the Joker woke.

He was coming apart at the seams.

When he did, the Joker would go right on laughing. 

He finally got the joke.

 

 

 

 

" _Hellooooo_ , Gotham! Did you miss me?”

 


	10. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is forced to face facts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait folks! Don't worry, I have no intent to abandon this. I have the whole story outlined and just waiting to be written, things just got a little hectic over here :D Thanks for all the lovely comments, they really helped me power through this chapter, it was a difficult one to get through <3 Will probably do more editing over the next couple days because there are still some places I'm like ehhh on.

“What did you do, Bruce?”

Alfred was cruel. Bruce hated that the butler knew immediately, as soon as the Joker’s voice poured from the television, that he was responsible. 

He was responsible.

Whatever the Joker was doing right now, it was Bruce’s fault. 

Lead filled his legs. He forced his eyes over to the TV screen, where the Joker was tapping the camera lens with a heavy hand and muttering ‘is this thing on?’ to himself. 

His shockingly white face filled the screen, wavering between sunken, black rimmed eyes, a hooked nose, and _Dynamite Red_ smeared lips.

He hadn’t told Alfred. The butler looked almost as horrified as he felt, a fine tremor in his hands that was apparent from the way the china shook on the tray he carried. He should have said something, knew that he would have to sooner rather than later. 

This was too soon.

It had only been a few days since he’d left the Joker in Amusement Mile. A few days for him to gather his goons, to mobilize his plan, to _get his suit_ , Bruce didn’t understand. He should have had more time.

“Behind me, I have a dozen Gotham citizens who are just _thrilled_ to be on _Joker cam._ Aren’t you Suzy?” On the TV, the Joker turned the camera around, revealing a group of people huddled in a corner of some unknown place. There was one more person, but they were on the floor, neck turned at an odd angle, and very dead. “Oops, did I say twelve? I meant eleven.” The Joker burst into manic laughter, the camera shaking as he did.

The fear on the hostage’s faces was palpable. Bruce could feel it in his pores, gut clenching at the sight of _children_ , three of them, wrapped up in the Joker’s mess. 

“Well, Suzy? It’s rude to ignore people when they’re talking to you!” The Joker shoved the camera in a young girl’s face, her acne-spotted cheeks wet with tears.

“My name isn’t Suzy!”

The camera shook, and Bruce heard a scream, and several other shouts from the other hostages in the surrounding area. The camera was moving too quickly to make out what was happening, but eventually he heard a muffled voice— “Okay! Yes, okay!”— and then the Joker was back.

“Ahem. Somewhere in Gotham _right now_ , is a bomb that’s more ready to blow than a brothel worker! If _Batman_ doesn’t find it and defuse it before it goes off, then I’ll kill one hostage every… hmm, three? Three’s a good number, lets say three. _Three minutes_ until they’re all dead.” The Joker’s voice was a dark growl by the end, though the smile hadn’t left his face. 

Bruce was still caught by the way he’d said _Batman_ , nearly a _purr_ , his mind jumping back in time to a strained _Bats_ , and reminding him why he’d tried to put distance between himself and the lunatic behind the camera in the first place. 

“Bruce. What did you do?”

Bruce swallowed, and stood from his seat. “He escaped.” 

The stare on Alfred’s face said _I don’t believe you_ , but Bruce did not give the man a chance to vocalize the sentiment. As he was rushing to the cave, stomach flopping over on its head, he heard the voice from the TV drone on.

“A hint! For the worlds greatest detective… the bomb is set someplace where it will kill exactly _twelve_ … or was it eleven? Oops!”

More laughter.

He just didn’t feel like playing the game. 

Or he did, and he didn’t want to feel that way. He couldn’t tell anymore.

Twelve. Eleven. What was he missing?

Despite not having a particular destination in mind Batman still took off into the night, thoughts on attempting to locate the location of the warehouse the Joker had been filming from. Amusement Mile was too obvious, Joker wouldn’t want to give up the game too early by making something easy.

The game, the game, the game. It wasn’t a game, lives were at stake. It was his fault. 

Bruce had set the Joker free without even considering consequence, all because he was too weak to resist… temptation. 

The Joker was _tempting._

Even just seeing that obnoxious green bowtie, the dead flower pinned to Joker’s lapel, sparked thoughts he did not want lingering around in his head. The Joker had gotten another suit. It was just a _suit_ , it was what the Joker always wore; but it had been so long since he’d seen Joker all dolled up. 

Batman gave his head a vicious shake, curling his fingers into his palms and turning his head towards the strong wind settling over Gotham city. It was like the floodgates had opened and all his mind could focus on was the torrent that tormented it. There were people counting on him and yet he dreaded the moment he came face to face with the Clown Prince of Crime again.

The man would taunt him. He would ask why Batman had let Gotham’s most notorious criminal go. He would remind Bruce of that moment where he’d had the Joker trapped underneath him, had lanky legs around his waist, a bony wrist in his hand, and sharp teeth around his thumb. He didn’t need any more reminding.

“Batman! Batman, can you hear me?” 

The voice made everything slide into sharp clarity. Batman knelt down, glancing around the roof even though he knew no one else was there. “ _Commissioner_?” He knew it had to be her, it was her voice, but he had not been expecting the contact. For the briefest of seconds, he was flabbergasted as to how she’d even tapped in to his communicator, before remembering the device he’d given to her all that time ago. It seemed like a distant memory. He should have taken it back.

“Batman, thank goodness. Listen, I think—“

“Commissioner I don’t have time for this,” he growled. “The Joker—“

“I know! I have information that could be of use for you.”

Batman held in a world-weary sigh. This was just what he did not need. “Commissioner. This line is not for—“

“The D’Angelo Memorial!” Barbara sounded frantic, like she was speaking faster than her brain was feeding her information. He could practically hear her pacing back and forth.

“...What?” Batman frowned, his finger hovering over the button that would sever the connection.

“The D’Angelo Memorial. It was made after Joker killed that bus full of children, there were twelve podiums in total. Then a drunk driver rammed into one. They were supposed to replace it, but never got around to it.”

“Leaving eleven,” Batman continued as realization dawned.

“I think—“

Batman pressed the button while he sprinted towards the edge of the roof and then leapt off.

Of course, the D’Angelo Memorial. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Named after it’s donor, it had been raised shortly after the Joker had gassed a bus full of innocent children. The night the Joker almost died, would have been killed by a Gotham city sniper. The memorial had been a simple one, plaques with the children’s names engraved on raised podiums in a grassy area near the road the bus had been on. That night was engraved into his mind, but the thought had not crossed it once.

Why?

 _Because_ , a voice whispered, nasal and grating, _those children aren’t the reason you remember that night._

Batman focused his thoughts on finding the bomb, knowing he wouldn’t accomplish anything if he was too busy berating himself. 

The memorial was in a small plane of grass near the highway entrance ramp. Cars were zooming past on the nearby road but none of them noticed when Batman dropped in. The night seemed too calm for the chaos the Joker was sewing. All he could hear was the stream-like sound of the steady line of traffic, the wind, and his own beating heart.

Batman was surprised by the lack of police. Barbara must have called him before informing her officers. An odd move, for someone who’d said she wanted to turn Gotham into a place that didn’t need a vigilante to clean up the streets, but he knew that it wouldn’t be too long before he heard the sounds of sirens in the distance.

The intact podiums did not look like they’d been tampered with, so Batman turned his attention to the half destroyed one. At first glance nothing was out of place, but in the darkness Batman could make out a faint, glowing light from a crack in the plaster.

Batman let out an irritated noise. It would be difficult to get the bomb out without setting it off in his attempts to get it out of the broken monument— but it wasn’t impossible. For a brief, angry moment he wanted to crush the statue and the bomb with it, but he let out a deep sigh and forced himself to calm. He had to stay focused, regardless of what he knew awaited him when he eventually ran into the Joker. Because he would, he knew he would, before the night was over.

He wasn’t prepared to see him again so soon. Maybe if he’d had a month. Three weeks. Two, even. Not just a few, measly days. Days where shame was still replacing blood in his veins and he felt guilt every time he so much as looked in Alfred’s direction. 

His took stock of his utility belt, trying to find something, anything that could be used to free the bomb. He came up with the pneumatic mangler. He’d never tried using it to cut through anything but metal before, but he was sure it could do the trick.

He kneeled down, shifting through different viewing modes in the cowl for the most useful. With a few careful cuts, he was lifting away one corner of the rubble that remained of the memorial, pursing his lips when he saw the bomb that had been planted inside.

It was painted a vibrant red and purple, two small flags reading BOOM sticking out of the top. There was a lipstick mark over the countdown timer that read 5:45.

A shudder wormed it’s way down Batman’s spine.

Then he heard it— sirens. When the police came they would quarantine off the area and make a big fuss. There was no way he was giving them the bomb. The Joker wouldn’t leave fingerprints no, but there might be something, anything he could use to gain information on it. 

Nostrils flared, Batman grappled away to a nearby rooftop where he could dismantle the bomb in peace. 

It was too easy. 

The Joker wanted him to succeed.

_Didn’t he always?_

Batman growled when he stopped the timer, his fingers tightening around the cheaply thrown together device.

“Bats, you did it!”

He flinched at the sudden sound that exploded out of the bomb— or as it was now, useless scraps. He flipped it over and found a small tape-recorder like device wired through the plastic. Batman spoke through gritted teeth. “Joker, when I find you I’m going to—”

“I’m sure you’re about to growl something terribly sexy, but this is just a recording darling, save it for the real thing.”

Batman hated him.

“You’re so _very_ close to saving them, Batman. You found the bomb, now, can you find _me_? You don’t need any hints this time, do you... you know me _so_ well.” The Joker trailed off in a mess of euphoric giggles. The sound of what had to be lips brushing over a microphone made the hair on the back of Batman’s neck rise.

Then that was it, the tinny crackle of the recording turned off, and Bruce was left alone on the roof.

He dropped the bomb to the ground and stamped it to dust. Forget thoughts about keeping it. It didn’t matter— he didn’t need it. He didn’t _want_ it. The name of the game was events of their past, fine. The very next stunt the Joker had pulled was the bank bombings. They’d faced off in an apartment near Gotham Met Bank. 

There.

The Joker was there, he was sure of it.

Batman took off into the night, trying not to think about what would happen when he saw the Joker again. What he might say. What would he say? The Joker had to know why he released him, even if he didn’t know the particulars. The Joker _knew_. He’d known all along. Before Bruce had.

_You don’t know him like I do, Brucie. No one does._

The hole he’d blown in the side of the building had not been patched up. The building had probably been scheduled for demolition long before the Joker made use of it, there were certainly no residents inside. Despite the obvious method of entry Batman had no desire to sneak around— the Joker was expecting him, and any traps set were bound to go off regardless of where he went in from. So he strode right through the front door.

It felt like there were flames licking at his heels as he stormed up the stairs, fingers clenching and unclenching rapidly into fists. He used this restless energy to fuel his anger. He needed the anger to distract him from thinking about seeing the Joker in person again. 

If any of the hostages died, their lives were on his head. He couldn’t let the Joker _get to him_ like this. 

The door to the room where he’d fought the Joker what seemed like an eternity ago was closed. Batman did not slow his approach, readying a batarang in his hand and kicking it open. It slammed against the wall with a stupendous crash. 

The room was almost just as they’d left it. The pool of blood where the Joker’s hostage had bled out was a stain on the wooden floors. The table in the same exact spot. Standing in the middle of it all was the Joker. 

The lights in the room were off, but Joker had set up two bright flashlights to point at him, carving the shadows on his body deeper. He was dressed beyond the nines in a perfect purple pin-striped suit, a matching waistcoat, and an obnoxiously orange shirt, paired with a green tie that matched his hair. Upon closer inspection, the strip of fabric had little orange skulls scattered all over it. The same skulls that made up the buttons on his waistcoat.

Batman’s eyes roamed over the elaborate costume, taking in the touch red along his lapels, the chain dangling from the belt wrapped around slender hips. Joker’s shoes were a dark leather and gleaming. 

It felt like Batman had been sucker-punched. 

“Bats! So glad you could make it.”

The hostages were nowhere to be seen. 

Finally, Batman forced his eyes to the Joker’s face. He was smiling— of course he was— stretching his arms out like a charlatan in the middle of a performance. It was all so normal that for the briefest second, he hadn’t broken the Joker out of Arkham, or engaged in a pointless water fight with him, or bought him _Dynamite Red_ lipstick, or watched him masturbate. 

But only a second.

“Joker,” Batman growled, because it felt like the only word that would come out of his mouth, and he knew he had to say something. He re-doubled his efforts to focus, taking a deep breath in. “Where are the hostages?”

The Joker pouted. “Really? That’s all you have to say? What do you think of my new suit?”

“They all look the same.” Batman took another step into the room. 

It was a lie. This coat had tails that draped down nearly to the floor, defying gravity in the way the tips curled in a fanciful loop. All of Joker’s suits were tailored perfectly but this one in particular seemed to meld against the planes of his body. 

It didn’t matter. Why couldn’t he stop staring? It was only _clothing_.

Joker huffed, pressing his hands to his hips and swaying to the side so dramatically his tails swayed with him. “Now _that_ is just unnecessarily rude. You know—"

Batman crossed the room in two long strides, hands clenched at his sides. “Where are the hostages?” 

The frown on the Joker’s face turned upside down. “Where indeed?”

Batman surged forward, dropping the batarang so he could grab the other by red-lined lapels and hoist him clear off the ground. 

The Joker grabbed on to his hands and kicked his feet like he was running on a treadmill, but otherwise made no real effort to get away.

“Where are they?” He bellowed, watching the Joker’s clover green eyes practically sparkle with amusement. They were too close. He gave the man a shake, as if that might help get his own thoughts straight, but it only seemed to knock out laughter Joker had been holding back.

Joker bit at his lower lip, snickering around his teeth before his tongue flicked out to tap the corner of his mouth. “Oh don’t worry, I’m gonna tell you where they are.” Another tap.

Batman tightened his grip on the Joker’s perfect suit, conflicting feelings swirling around inside him. He wanted to mess up the other’s wrinkle free jacket just as badly as he wanted it locked neatly away with the rest of his collection, perfectly preserved for his eyes and no one else’s. 

He wanted to say it wasn’t just because it was the Joker’s. He did have other things that used to belong to other villains, but even as useful as it might be, there was no reason for the vastness of his Joker collection. 

How hadn’t he seen it before?

The Joker had new cuff links. 

“That’s the point,” the Joker went on, drumming his fingers against Batman’s thumbs. “You’ll have to choose. Let your _greatest enemy_ go free, or let ten random citizens slowly suffocate to death.”

Batman narrowed his eyes. “Ten?”

“That _Suzy_ got on my nerves.”

Batman sucked in a breath. The child, who he’d seen not even an hour earlier, terrified and crying, was dead. And the man in front of him was her murderer. 

The Joker abruptly burst into laughter, loud enough to make Batman cringe. He dropped the clown back to his feet, watching the other stumble and press his hands to his stomach. “You monster,” he mumbled, nausea swirling in his gut.

“Ooh, if you’re going to do pet names, try ‘muffin’. I’ve always liked muffins.” 

“Quiet, clown.”

“Eh, I’ve heard it before.”

They were getting nowhere fast. It registered that Joker had said the hostages would _suffocate_ , and realized they were probably losing air as they spoke. “Tell me where the hostages are.” The nausea in Batman’s gut grew stronger. He didn’t want to believe that this was the man— the monster that had made him so overwhelmingly aroused. He’d been with some of the most beautiful women in the world and had never come that fast. It wasn’t even a matter of pride. Whether he’d gotten off or not, the fact that the Joker— fighting with the Joker, had even gotten him so… He wanted to tell himself it was only a fluke, didn’t want to believe it, but it brought sudden context to so many of their interactions it was impossible for him to deny it. 

The Joker smoothed a hand over his hair, fluffing up the green strands and humming to himself.

The uneasy feeling was not just from shame. Bruce was terrified. He was waiting for the moment that the Joker looked him in the eyes, that he smiled, and began to drag him back to that moment, two days ago, with acid words and acid eyes. He was certain it would come.

This had to be it. 

Then the Joker said “they’re at Dixon Docks, and they’re running out of time.” He grinned, and slipped his hands casually into his pockets, and tilted his head, and it was all so familiar. 

It was all just as it should be. As it always was. Not even a secret smile, a knowing look, not even an allusion to the events two days ago.

“So, Batman? What will you do?” 

He couldn’t move. Where was it? The taunting. The unbearable questions. He couldn’t fathom _why_ the man who was always so eager to jump on any little hint of anything between them would just let it go. Couldn’t believe that he would.

The Joker tilted his head the other way, lips stretching into a thin line. “Hello? Bats? Anyone home?” 

Batman blinked, lowering his head to eye the batarang he’d left on the floor.

“Oh good, there you are! For a second I thought the gerbil running the wheel behind that mask of yours had up and died.”

“Dixon Docks,” he repeated, and the Joker shuffled back towards the open window behind him. 

“Mmhmmmmm. Honestly, I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t find my little bomb in time. There was this guy, Steve, _terrible_ hostage, wouldn’t shut up, I’d have killed him too if I’d had more time. But there wasn’t time to dally, not really my most _creative_ job sure, but—“

Batman spaced out while the Joker rambled, a tremble running through him as he finally understood.

The Joker didn’t have to rub his nose in it. The Joker didn’t have to say anything, because as far as the Joker was concerned, it was nothing different than what had been going on all along. 

The only thing the Joker wanted from him was for precisely what he was doing. 

All Joker wanted was to continue the game.

“I could just take you down now,” Bruce interrupted the clown, nearly forgetting to change his voice, “and then go save the hostages.”

The Joker was leaning against the windowsill now. “You could… but then you’d never find out where the second bomb is.”

“What second bomb?”

“ _The_ second bomb! Pay attention!” Joker laughed.

Batman took at step forward, narrowing his eyes. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? The last time we were here you tricked me with a dud.”

Joker snickered, and Batman took another step forward, feeling all the turmoil that had been plaguing his thoughts slowly draining out of his body, making him feel lighter, sounds and images sharper. 

“You don’t. Well? Make your choice.” 

He was standing right in front of him. They were nearly the same height, eye to eye. The wind from the open window brushed against Batman’s cheeks but cold was not currently in his vocabulary. 

Joker was smiling. 

Batman stared, waited, watching Joker’s smile tick up a millimeter further with every passing second. “…This time, Joker.” 

The clown blinked with the lazy eyes of an alligator watching its prey, and then stifled a giggle. “This time?”

“Next time, you won’t get away.”

In hyper contrast to how still they’d been standing moments earlier, Joker was suddenly in movement, arms wrapping around Batman’s shoulders and a too wide mouth moving uncomfortably close to his ear. “But Batman,” he said, just a hair too loud to be a whisper, “I always do.”

Batman felt the kiss against the side of his cowl, but even had he not, the exaggerated sound effect the Joker made was impossible not to notice. Before he could react, the Joker was shifting back, leaping out the window and disappearing into the night with his trademark laugh. 

Batman gave him three seconds, before stepping forward and glancing out. As expected, the man was nowhere to be seen. He pressed a hand over the lipstick mark he knew remained on his head, spending a couple more seconds at the window before stepping out himself.

Dixon docks.

 _What you do this for, what_ gets you off _, is_ us _. Our little trysts.”_

 _“Oh Bats. How does it feel, being here_ playing _with me while children die?”_

 _You’re just angry because I’m_ yours.

_He’s probably watching right now, keeping an eye on little ole me, infuriated that he can’t figure out my plan. Wishing I’d bust out and come back to him already._

The Joker had been right.

 

 

He found ten people in a makeshift mass grave, covered in dirt, the remaining children sobbing loudly for parents that weren’t there. The police arrived in a flourish of red lights and loud noise after he called informing them of the situation, and gradually the hostages were calmed and removed from the scene in pairs of two and three. 

“I take it you found the bomb?” Barbara Gordon didn’t look pleased. 

Batman felt the smallest bit of guilt about how their last interaction ended. “Yes. …Your assistance was appreciated.”

She unwound her arms from around her sides, a smile curling her lips. In the lights from the police vehicles her red hair looked even redder. “We never would have found the hostages without your call. How’d you find them?” 

Batman turned his head, staring off at Gotham’s dark skyscrapers. “I found the Joker.”

“Really?” Barbara took half a step forward, before seeming to calm, standing up straighter. “Where is he now?”

He shook his head. “He got away.”

Barbara huffed, lifting up a hand to push her fingers through her hair. “This is just bizarre. He disappears only to show up with a scheme like this? I thought for sure he’d be trying to demolish Arkham, or slaughtering doctors, or… I don’t know. Something more.”

Batman eyed the woman. “You’re right. He threw this together. His next appearance won’t be so easy to undo.” This was simply a prelude of things to come. An intermission while they got back to their regularly scheduled programming. The Joker was saying that things were going to go back to normal and he couldn’t wait for it to happen. 

An officer called Barbara’s title and she turned. While her attention was distracted Batman took his leave.

He stood on a rooftop watching the sun rise over the same Gotham that was always there, a Gotham that somehow had not ended despite the undeniable fact that he was attracted to the Joker, and he still had the impression of purple lapels on his fingertips.

The hostages were safe, Gotham was safe, and in two weeks, or three, or four, the Joker would pull another stunt, plant another bomb, kill another girl, and Batman would stop him, and the cycle would repeat itself, again, and again, and again, and he felt like he always did after a night of thwarting the Joker’s plans.

Alive.

The game would go on. 

 

 

 

 

“The Joker?” That was the first thing Alfred asked upon his return. The butler was waiting in the cave, and probably had been for long before Bruce had finally decided to return. He’d stayed out far later than he usually dared to, not liking to move without the cover of night.

His head felt clear now. He was capable of focusing his attention. Seeing the look on Alfred’s face, he wished he wasn’t.

Bruce pulled off the cowl, body still buzzing from the heady realization he wasn’t quite done facing. “He got away.”

Alfred stared at Bruce with hard eyes and lips pursed so tightly it looked like his face might crack in two. “I warned you against bringing that madman here. If you couldn’t handle—”

“I can handle it, Alfred.” He could. He could, now that he understood. Now that he could see. 

He knew it wasn’t right. He shouldn’t— he didn’t _want_ it to be this way. But the Joker wasn’t going to stop, and Batman wasn’t going to stop stopping him, and anything else in between was all incidental. It didn’t have to matter.

It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter that he saw the Joker’s tongue dabbing at the corner of his mouth when he closed his eyes, that he wanted to replace that tongue with his own, or that he’d swiped one of the Joker’s new cuff links. As long as he kept stopping the Joker, it did not matter.

Alfred shook his head. “I don’t think you can, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce bristled. It wasn’t something Alfred could possibly understand, or even something he wanted the butler to understand. “Alfred—”

“I looked though the surveillance camera footage from when the Joker was here.”

Bruce’s heart stopped. He took a second to remind himself that any footage, any _really incriminating footage_ was beyond Alfred or anyone else’s reach. He’d been very thorough. As much as he knew the surveillance cameras were useful, it never would have sat right with him to keep videos of something so… intimate.

“Most of it was deleted, but what wasn’t—”

“You had no right.” Bruce was seething. He mentally went over the ones he knew remained, trying to think of what Alfred might have seen. He hadn’t even known Alfred knew how to get into his system. 

The footage from the guest room. Their water fight. The way he’d badgered the Joker about not telling him he was being mistreated, of all things.

“I don’t think you realize the dangerous effect that man has on you.”

“Alfred—“

“You bought him a puzzle, Bruce. A puzzle.” Alfred said this like it was the absolute worst of all his transgressions, hands rising from his sides. “You caged him in here with you and while you might not realize it—”

“Alfred.” Bruce didn’t want to get into a shouting match with his dearest friend. He closed his eyes. Maybe before tonight, maybe right after he’d let the Joker go, the conversation would have benefited him. But now? 

Now, there was nothing left to say. 

Bruce opened his eyes, giving the older man a pleading look. “Alfred. I do realize. I was careless, I let him get to me. It’s not going to happen again.” It was only half a lie. 

The Joker would always get to him. 

Whatever it was about that lunatic, he was tangled so deeply in it there was no hope of getting out. He’d proven that. The Joker had been locked away in Arkham, complacent, and Bruce had set him free. No matter the underlying circumstances, that was what happened.

Alfred let out a long sigh, eyes brimming with disappointment. Those eyes fixed on his cowl, where Bruce knew the lipstick mark remained. Then Alfred turned and walked towards the elevator. 

It wasn’t the end of the conversation, he was sure, just a pause. Another intermission. He appreciated it none the less. There was still a lot to reflect on.

Bruce looked down at his cowl, rubbing his thumb near the mark that he’d had plenty of time to wipe off. 

He didn’t even bother wondering why he hadn’t.


	11. Question Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something big is set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was chapter ten? What? We’re on chapter eleven already?
> 
> Sorry this took so long! I’ve been working on creating a visual novel and since I’m so close to finishing that’s been taking up a lot of my time lately. Chapter twelve is already written, just gotta do some editing, so it shouldn’t take as long to get up. c:  
> Thanks for all the lovely comments by the way guys, they really make my day. No worries, I love this pair and I’m having too much fun with this fic to abandon it!

_Dr. Franklin Peralta, highly respected psychologist and former Arkham employee was found dead this morning in the Arkham medical facility. Our sources say police still aren’t sure how the deed was done, but the culprit left his calling card._

The news report put it on screen, and Bruce was not at all surprised to see a playing card graphic tossed up for a handful of seconds. The harlequin featured had a wide smile and a long nose.

_Dr. Peralta was known to be treating the criminal known as ‘The Joker’ during his stay in Arkham, and had been in protective custody since the Joker's escape. The officers responsible for holding the doctor are now under question as suspected collaborators._

Bruce had known it was coming. Of course the Joker wouldn’t take what Peralta had done lying down. The doctor had to have known, too. The fact that he had been in protective custody proved that.

Alfred came in to collect his breakfast tray and Bruce murmured “Thank you,” putting his phone to sleep and effectively ending the chattering of the news anchor, who’d already moved on to a story about a girl scout troop and their wonder dog. He slid out of bed and stretched his arms over his head, inhaling deeply.

Alfred was gone without another word.

Alfred had been quiet, lately. Bruce could hardly blame him. Alfred wouldn’t understand, but in time Bruce hoped he’d see that Batman was just as dedicated to keeping Gotham safe. The Joker couldn’t change that.

Bruce walked over to his desk, where his brand new keyboard awaited him. He’d broken the last one. Remembering how and why did nothing to ease the weight in his heart that Alfred’s demeanor had formed, so he put it out of his mind and started up his computer. Looking up what exactly happened to Peralta was more difficult than he expected. Most news outlets said nothing more than what GCN had in their broadcast. Digging deeper eventually revealed a leak from one of the police reports.

Peralta was found strapped to an examination table, the top of his skull sliced clean off. His brain resting neatly on a purple and gold cushion fit for a king, inches away from the empty cavity. Sticking out of the center was a single Joker playing card.

He knew why Alfred was quiet, what Alfred was thinking, because he was thinking it too. This was Bruce’s fault.

Every death, every injury, every distraught parent, every broken loved one, all of it rested on Bruce’s shoulders.

Before the Joker turned himself in, no matter how guilty he felt when he wasn’t able to save someone, he was aware it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t control the Joker any more than he could tame flames. Now, he was the one who had unleashed the fire that was the Joker onto the city. The Joker hadn’t broken out of Arkham, Batman had let him loose. Peralta’s death was only the latest in a long line.

The guilt should have been all consuming. Agonizing. Relentless. He shouldn’t have been able to move for the weight that sat in his chest.

Instead, he felt a distinct sense of clarity.

When he thought back on their interactions, when he re-watched old footage of battles long past, he could feel it. The low pulse of arousal, the want to touch, to _own_ , need mistaken for anger. He couldn’t believe he’d been so blind. It was so easy to be blind to what you did not want to see.

Now he could see everything.

He dreamed of the Joker.

He’d dreamed of him before, had _nightmares_  of plenty of villains, but this was different. He couldn’t say how. There was nothing concrete, nothing that remained when he opened his eyes in the morning, but he woke rested with giggles fading from his ears.

For all the confusion, stress, and frustration during the Joker’s stint in Arkham, wondering what he was up to, when his next move would come, when he would come back... suddenly it felt like everything had returned blissfully to normal. With a distinct difference. The clarity.

Bruce leaned back in his chair and massaged his fingers into his temples. ‘I will stop him,’ he told himself, the thought unwavering and firm. ‘The next time I see the Joker, he’s going straight to Arkham. Nothing that matters has changed.’

He stood to shower and get ready for the day, turning on the police scanner that sat by his right elbow on a whim. Two weeks had passed since the Joker took those twelve people hostage, and the Clown Prince of Crime had been quiet. For the Joker, Peralta’s death _was_  quiet. 

Today he’d attend a briefing at Wayne Enterprises. He only got so many opportunities to keep up appearances.

Bruce tugged off his sleep shirt, tossing it onto the bed to be placed in the laundry hamper later. The steady crackle and faint

voices from the scanner provided background noise as he ran the water in the sink and got his toothbrush.

_”...Museum of Antiquities. Reports of a disturbance. Doors barricaded.”_

Bruce leant one ear as he brushed, bristles moving lazily over his molars.

_”...A green gas seen through the windows. Officers—“_

Bruce spat, sparing hardly half a second to rinse before he was out of the bathroom, out the master suite, down the stairs. Not eager, purposeful. That was what he told himself when he passed by Alfred, who raised an eyebrow at his hurried pace.

“Trouble at the museum.”

The Joker didn’t often strike during the day. He was shaking things up.

He avoided the tumbler to remain less conspicuous, gliding over the rooftops and taking the shortest route to the Museum of Antiquities.

There were police working on getting the doors open, with little apparent success.

Batman grappled straight to one of the windows on the second floor, sticking to the side of the building rather than the front. He could learn more about the situation by looking himself rather than waiting for one of the officers to brief him.

Peering through the window didn’t reveal much save for a sea of green with several bodies wandering aimlessly through it.

Studying them, they didn’t appear to be laughing. Not Joker gas, then.

He frowned, fitting the small gas mask on his face and breaking the window to get inside.

Once in, he could see the electric chandelier lights flickering on and off. In the daytime, the effect was more annoying than menacing. Once on the ledge he took a closer look at the figures moving through the gas, cowl giving him the information he needed.

Heartbeats rapidly elevated, body chemistry out of whack. If they were exposed for much longer he didn’t like their chances. Without a more concrete sample he couldn’t analyze the gas, but he could use the cowl to find where the largest concentrations were, to lead him to the source.

He hopped down from the ledge and glided into a smooth landing. On the floor, the gas was significantly thicker, giving everything an eerie, green tint. It was difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. Perhaps the stumbling around of the civilians wasn’t from the effects of the gas, but rather the visual limitations it caused.

The barricade flickered into his mind, but before he could decide whether to take it down first or not he heard a scream directly behind him.

Batman whipped around, seeing a dark-skinned woman coming at him with raised fists. He blocked her wild attack, taking a step back. “I’m here to help.”

His words didn’t seem to get through to her, if she heard them at all. Fending her off was not a problem, doing so without hurting her, no doubt an innocent in all this, was significantly harder.

Someone yanked at his cape and he turned, seeing a boy who couldn’t be older than sixteen clawing at the fabric like some sort of animal. Batman grabbed his wrist, yanking him off and sending him stumbling further off into the gas.

The noise seemed to attract more civilians. Before he knew it Batman was surrounded on all sides. He grunted as he blocked an inexpertly thrown punch, looking up.

Swinging around and sending three stumbling with a wave of his cape, Batman took out the grappler again and used it to haul himself up to the nearest ledge.

He huffed once he was safely crouching by another window, glancing down at the crowd he’d left. Curiously enough, they did not attack each other. As soon as he was gone, they went back to their wandering and staggering about, like ineffectual zombies.

Batman moved his attention to the various windows scattered across his line of vision, taking out a few batarangs and taking out the small panels that made up the ones to his left and right. With any luck, as the gas continued to gradually flow out, the ‘zombies’ would calm.

Deciding to simply stay out of their way for the time being, he focused on following the trail of gas. From this vantage point it all looked the same, so he swung around, landing atop a sturdy marble arch and looking again.

The southwestern corner of the room seemed to be where it was thickest.

Batman glided down towards the corner, searching along the wall until he found a vent that had the largest concentration of particles yet. He could hear the zombies— the _civilians_ moving around a ways away, could hear some of them letting out faint sobs every so often.

One thing was certain, this definitely wasn’t the Joker’s work. He bet once he got this gas back to the cave, he’d find it was very similar to the strain he’d confiscated from those thieves in the pharmacy.

He ripped the grate to the vent off the wall, setting it aside, before crawling in and replacing the cover, to discourage one of the affected civilians from following.

The further away he got from the main foyer of the museum, the quieter their groaning grew. Soon, all he could hear was the sounds of his own breathing through the filtration mask and the metallic noise of his gloves and knee pads against the floor of the vent.

As predicted, the gas was extremely thick here. He checked his mask to be safe, satisfied it was working properly. About twenty feet in he found the source, an innocuous looking white canister, a little under a foot long.

He hadn’t seen any sign of the culprit in all this, but he knew it had to be one of Dr. Crane’s experiments. He was expanding beyond fear, it seemed. Or maybe it was a different sort of fear. A fight for your life kind of fear. He could only imagine what might happen if these chemicals affected people over a wider area.

He needed to speed up his investigation on Crane. He’d been distracted.

Batman glowered, picking up the canister to disable it.

He could accept a strange sort of attraction to the Joker, but he couldn’t accept his attention to Gotham’s other threats wavering because of it. He needed to stay focused.

Static came to life in his ear and he nearly cursed aloud. “Commissioner,” he growled, but a loud noise cut him off. He couldn’t place it at first.

“Batman! Someone—“ another rumbling sound, and the connection wavered.

Batman lifted a hand to his ear, sitting back on his haunches and frowning.

“...GCPD! There’s—“ her voice cut out with a scream.

“Commissioner?” He called for her even though he knew she could not hear him. Immediately his mind began to race through the possibilities.

An attack on the GCPD, right when this was happening at the museum? A coordinated attack? Had Crane just been planning a diversion?

The sounds from Barbara’s end could have easily been explosions.

 _Joker Joker Joker_ a voice in Batman’s head growled. Anger curled up his spine. He wouldn’t put it past the Joker to work with Dr. Crane, or even steal some of his supplies in order to lure Batman out.

The disoriented people in the museum would have to wait. With any luck now that the source of the gas had been stopped it would start to clear up. The police would get through the barricade eventually and once they did they could help the civilians.

Batman attached the canister to a spot on his utility belt, and began to make his way out of the vent.

As soon as he was able he grappled back up to the first window he’d broken and leaped out.  
His first priority was to find a vantage point. He climbed to the top of the building next door, squinting in the direction of the GCPD.

He could see smoke, rising in the distance.

Batman made one last attempt to re-establish communication with Barbara, but it was no use. There were only a few people who would be able to get a bomb into the GCPD undetected, if that was what happened.

Wasting no more time, Batman grabbed on to his cape and dived into a smooth glide.

Speculation was pointless, but he couldn’t help going over possible scenarios in his head as the wind brushed his cheeks. The end to each only pointed to one person.

He didn’t understand how he could feel drawn in any way to someone who treated life with such careless regard.

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that.

Sirens warbled through the daytime sky the closer he got to the GCPD. Fire trucks dispatched, not yet arrived. Smoke was billowing out of the windows— what was left of them— and a couple officers were stumbling down the steps. More were laying down outside the building, like they’d gotten there and simply collapsed.

There were other people too, who no doubt had been thrown back or caught off guard by the explosion, stretched out on the sidewalk. Onlookers were screaming and recording with their smartphones.

Batman landed next to one of the officers who looked the most put together, a woman missing her hat, soot stains on her cheeks. He barked out “what happened?”

She, thankfully, seemed too startled by the events to even blink at Batman’s arrival. “Don’t know... just— explosion, smoke, fire. The commissioner, she was helping people out, she’s still in there...”

“Tell everyone they need to get further back.” Batman didn’t wait to see how she responded before wrapping his cape around himself and storming into the building. The firefighters would be here soon, but not soon enough.

Through the cowl, Batman could filter through most of the smoke to see the ruined shapes of the destroyed police department. Thankfully, he still had the gas mask from earlier. He certainly hadn’t expected to be using it like this, but he was glad of the coincidence. If it was one

Flames lapped at the walls, desks were overturned, and shredded bits of paper floated through the air, desperately searching for a home. Two bodies entered his line of sight. A quick once over with the cowl’s eyes revealed them to be dead. Batman clenched his fists, hurrying further into the building, where the ceiling had started to come down.

So many hadn’t made it out. Had there been any warning at all? Any clue? Usually the Joker left _something_ , some indication of what he wanted, what the _point_  was. Of course, very often there was no point. Or rather, that was the point. In the chaos of the burning GCPD Batman stood and looked for someone he knew wasn’t there.

And then he saw a shock of red hair, and reality came slamming back in the form of debris raining down on him from the ceiling. Batman ducked out of the way, darting over to the figure half buried in broken ceiling tile and half of what had once been a very austere bookshelf.

The red of her hair seemed to blend in with the red on her face, her hands, somehow managing to be dark and vibrant at the same time, slick, clinging to her work appropriate white shirt.

Barbara.

Batman kneeled down close and checked her pulse even though the cowl told him she was alive— just barely.  
Above them there was a crack, a groan, as the building told him that it simply couldn’t hold out any longer.

“Bat…man…?”

“Commissioner.” He pushed over the bookshelf with little difficulty, anxious that doing so would aggravate her wounds, but being cautious was currently an unaffordable luxury. He grabbed her and scooped her into his arms, her body stiff and hard to manipulate, like ice cream fresh out of the freezer.

He didn’t know if she was the only one left alive but she was the only one he’d be able to save.

As a wall of smoke and heat pounded his back, he darted back to the entrance, stumbling down the steps just as the building gave it’s last, dying wail and collapsed in on itself dramatically. It didn’t feel real. He felt like he was floating in a dream. The GCPD had always seemed sacred, somehow. Impervious to chaos. Oh there were _humans_ inside that could be manipulated, _people_ who made the force untrustworthy, but the building was a symbol. Like Batman.

“The… the package.”

Batman looked down.

Barbara stared up at him beneath eyelids she could barely keep open. She was delirious.

“You’re safe. Help will be here soon.”

Barbara didn’t say anything else, the frail tension in her body going slack.

He lifted his head to stare out, across the street. As if he’d see Joker watching from the other side. Mocking him. He had to be watching from somewhere. Had to be. Laughing about how he hadn’t been able to save everyone in time. Laughing at the crude facsimile of Barbara Gordon dangling in his arms. All her strength, her intensity, drained out to fuel the fire that burned down what she held so dear.

He checked her pulse one more time.

Ambulances and firetrucks lined the street. Batman handed Barbara over to the medics and retreated out of the way for the time being. He wondered if the package Barbara spoke of had contained the bomb that destroyed the GCPD, or if she’d been too out of it for coherent thoughts.

 

Later, after the fire had put out and the sun was setting in the sky, Batman returned to what remained of the GCPD to hunt for clues. The entire area was roped off, but caution tape yellow was pretty much out of his color spectrum by this point.  
He stepped through the black rubble, looking over half familiar shapes, memory reminding him where they should be, and consequently, how broken it all was now. Each crunch of soot under his boots made him wince. There was a low thrum of anxiety undercutting the smell of char and unfulfilled promises. It had been several hours since the bomb went off and still no note, no video to the media, no familiar laugh on the wind.

Underneath the stars and skyscrapers, Batman could determine was that the bomb seemed to have gone off in Barbara’s office, if the pattern of debris was any indication. She couldn’t have been in there when it gone off and survived. Why would she go back?

Batman poured over every inch of the destroyed room but could find nothing that pointed to a culprit, or even a next step in what had to be a larger plan. With frustration he relented, pulling back and ghosting through the half standing doorframe.  
It was by chance he glanced over, saw the half there question mark drawn in soot against the wood that had weathered so much. He thought to himself that they weren’t doing too good a job at keeping people out, if even curious children could wander in without issue.

Right now there was only one person who could tell him what happened— Barbara.

She was recovering in Gotham General. He’d need to be patient.

In the meantime, he’d work on what happened in the museum. It was no less of a threat. No less important.  
Right before he grappled away, Batman thought he saw a flash of green— but chalked it up to his imagination.

 

  
“The Joker again, sir?” Alfred, bless him, seemed to understand that it was not the day for arguments neither of them could win, for he kept all disapproval out of his tone and expression as he asked the question. The television was on as Alfred dusted— which Bruce suspected was just a front to feel productive. On the wide screen, footage of the GCPD burning looped as newscasters talked over it about who could have possibly committed such a horrible atrocity. Right now, Harvey Dent was apparently a favorite culprit.

Bruce fell back onto the couch. “Yes. No. Possibly.” He was missing something. There was no Joker card, no smile, no green, no _Dynamite Red_.

Bruce sunk into the couch and considered the information he had for as long as it took him to remember he had other things to be doing. It was longer than usual.

The canister he’d collected from the museum had to have been left by Dr. Crane, or one of his goons. Analysis of the gas revealed it to be too similar to the compound he’d discovered before for it to be coincidence. He wasn’t sure if the antidote he’d been working on would protect against this potent new strain.

Back to the drawing board.

Dr. Crane was mobilizing. Testing. Improving. Waiting for something big. Batman had to actively work to push down the guilt over not making more progress on the mystery. Aside from the string of pharmaceutical robberies, the doctor had been frustratingly subtle. It wasn’t his fault that other people didn’t have subtle in their vocabulary. The more he considered, the more he was sure the museum and the explosion didn’t have anything in common save for the timing. The doctor had nothing to gain by blowing up the police department, quick, violent deaths had never been his goal.

While Bruce worked on a new antidote— the most productive thing he could do at the moment— he devoted twenty-five percent of his brainpower to thinking about his and the Joker’s last encounter. Picking it apart for some clue of what the game ws this time. 

The Joker had been truly back in his element, vibrant and perfect as a fresh crayon box. New suit, old makeup, same smile. He flicked through a catalogue of the Joker’s old suits in his mind, astounded by how vividly he could bring them up with just a thought. He’d always thought the clown was well dressed, but he hadn’t noticed just how much he’d _noticed_.

While chemical compounds interacted and tests ran, Bruce found himself standing in front of the mannequin wearing Joker’s almost perfect coat. He picked up the container that now held two of Joker’s cuff links, two broken pairs. One smiley-face, one bright orange skull. He felt a simmer of almost embarrassment, recalling how the Joker had guessed he’d been keeping little tidbits of his wardrobe. Staring at his collection, suddenly it wasn’t enough. He recalled how the Joker had looked in that flashlight-lit room, all long lines and wide arms and beckoning eyes.

It was only clothing. He’d seen super models wrapped in the very definition of _high fashion_ , gorgeous women sewn into fabric perfectly tailored to accentuate their every curve. Of course he’d seen men in suits before, nice suits, _better_ suits, less garish, clashing colors, less skulls. Less Joker. 

Bruce reached out, tracing a finger over one narrow shoulder of the purple coat, pulling away when it elicited a shiver. He regarded this side of himself, the physical symptoms of attraction, his frazzled thoughts, from a detached perspective. A scientist’s perspective. Analyzing the way his reactions to the Joker changed based on what he was wearing. Aggression, when he was in the suit. Suspicion in his Arkham whites. Something wholly unidentifiable, in Bruce’s too big clothes. Something like steamy broth for Alfred’s most delicious soup poured over rusted nails. He watched himself attach the smiley-face cuff link to his own shirt cuff, turning his wrist this way and that.

Then he watched himself take it off, set it back in the container, and send the collection away, back to the depths of the cave.

Maybe it wasn’t the clothing.

Bruce forced himself back into his chair to continue his work, forced his mind to center completely on his current task. With the concession that later when he finally let himself sleep, he would allow himself to envision the perfect image he had of the Joker in his head, and indulge in the fact that he knew precisely who the man dressed for.

It didn’t mean anything. A few harmless thoughts. He could permit that much. Surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, you’re a mess, accept it.


	12. What’s At The End Of A Rainbow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce gets more clues, and a few answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient guys! Actually, this is only half of chapter 12, but it was getting too long so I decided to split it up into two. 
> 
> The reason I was gone so long was because I was working on a free visual novel available here: https://minyan.itch.io/thepretendersguild
> 
> Check it out if you’re so inclined! Because chapter 13 is nearly halfway written (i.e, what used to be the end of chapter 12) it shouldn’t take me as long to update again, but we’ll see. 
> 
> And thank you for all the lovely comments, I really appreciate it ;;
> 
> Oh and you could also follow me on tumblr (https://minyanstudios.tumblr.com) for random updates about my projects, including this of course c:

Three nights after the explosion at the GCPD, Batman went to visit an old friend.

In that time, he’d waited, watched, but there was no sign of Crane, the Joker, or whoever had bombed the GCPD. He still wasn’t absolutely certain the last two weren’t one in the same, but the more time passed, the less certain he was that the Joker was behind the bombing.

It was so _him_. Blowing up the police department. Yet there was no call out. No challenge. No ultimatum. No half logical lesson about chaos and its virtues. No game.

Maybe the Joker was starting a new one.

These thoughts ran through Batman’s mind like a smoothly running computer as he waited out on the windy balcony, eyes focused on the city laid out in front of him. The lack of answers had him on edge. Not just with maybe Joker. It was strange for Crane to be so absent in his plans.

Batman was certain he was the one behind the fear gas. H the way he was moving— sending random thugs armed with gas to random pharmacies, leaving open canisters in public places but not being there to relish in the results… it was almost like—

“Jesus.”

Batman glanced over, seeing Gordon had finally noticed him. It had been a good thirty seconds.

“Batman? What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering directly, Batman chose to ask a question that would tell Gordon what he wanted to know. “How is she?”

Gordon’s expression twisted.

Batman imagined that Gordon had a lot of issues with his daughter taking over his job. He knew first hand how dangerous it was. Barbara Gordon was a grown woman who was more than capable of taking care of herself, but right now Gordon had the look of a father fretting over a small child.

“She’s… recovering. Her injuries weren’t that serious. But if she’d been in her office when that bomb went off.” He cut off the end of his sentence with a sigh.

Batman felt a faint sense of nostalgia. It hadn’t been that long since Gordon retired, but it felt like ages since they’d last stood together like this. Barbara was certainly a different sort of police commissioner than her father had been. He couldn’t imagine Gordon directing him through a network of dirty tunnels off police record for the sake of a glorified hunch; but there was something familiar about her as well. He would admit that Barbara being Gordon’s daughter may have made him slightly more inclined to indulge her. “I need to speak with her. Figure out who’s behind this.”

“It’s gotta be the Joker.” Gordon shook his head. “I knew things ended too easy, last time.”

Two people dying was hardly ‘easy’, but he understood Gordon’s point. He wasn’t inclined to share his insight into the matter, however.

“I’ll get you in. Figure this out, Batman.”

 

 

Barbara was in room 304 of Gotham General. Gordon told him that she had a fracture in one of her ribs, a number of bruises, and a sprained wrist. Batman didn’t bother telling him he’d already looked into the hospital records to determine whether the new commissioner had been recovering well. If she had been the target of the bomber, then her being in such a vulnerable state would be the perfect time to strike again. Thankfully, the other officers seemed to realize this, as two had been assigned to her door while she healed.

After the doctors turned out the lights and left everyone to their rest, Batman slipped in with the help of Gordon the first.

“Commissioner.”

It was strange seeing Barbara like this. Vulnerable. Despite her frame, she always held an aura of strength to compliment her unrelenting drive. She was wearing hospital issued clothing, her red hair spilled about her shoulders in a haphazard pool.  
At his voice, Barbara blinked her eyes open sleepily, looking briefly unaware of her surroundings, before her head turned towards him standing by the door. “…Batman?” She tried to sit up, then winced and settled back down.

The contrast between how she treated him and how she treated Bruce Wayne was so large, it was difficult to remember how to act around her when he was without his cowl. Where with Bruce she could be dismissive or even condescending, as Batman they seemed to have come to a sort of understanding, the few times they’d worked together. “Don’t push yourself. There’s a few things we need to talk about.”

“This is about the explosion…” Barbara blinked again, hard, probably trying to fight off the haze of the painkillers.

“Yes.”

“I can’t tell you much.”

“Tell me what you can.” He took a few steps closer as she nodded slowly.

“…A deliveryman… no one I’d ever seen before, dropped off a package.” She squinted, like she was trying to remember more details.

“What was he wearing?” Batman prompted.

Barbara thought for a moment, frowned. “I don’t… wait. Yes, his uniform was a little strange. I can’t remember how, just that I thought it didn’t seem like standard issue. He left a package for me. There wasn’t an address, just a large question mark.”  
Batman narrowed his eyes, something tickling at the back of his mind.

“I put it to the side. Ten minutes later while I was at the copy machine, there was an explosion.”

The drama once more pointed towards the Joker, but something about it seemed a little off as well.

Barbara grunted, resting a hand over her side. “Do you think it was the Joker?”

Instead of answering a question he was unsure of the answer to, Batman pressed for more details. “What was in the package?”

“I didn’t have time to open it.”

He pursed his lips. It was unfair to blame Barbara— the package had probably been screened and deemed harmless before it got anywhere near her office. It was just frustrating. He had no doubt the security camera footage had been damaged in the explosion as well.

A sound from behind made Batman turn.

A portly nurse with tight black curls slipped into the room and stumbled upon noticing him. After he stepped aside, she hesitated, before waddling in a few steps further. “Ms. Gordon, a letter was left for you at the front desk.”

“From who?”

“A gentleman caller. Must be your lucky day.” At first glance the nurse looked relatively young, but her age was betrayed by the phrase ‘gentleman caller’, and the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes when she smiled. She left the letter on the small tray connected to the bed, and after one last curious glance towards Batman, she shuffled back out of the room.

He could never predict the reaction people would have towards him, so he was grateful she wasn’t either a die hard fan or a vigilante hater.

Barbara reached for the letter once the nurse disappeared beyond the doorframe, but Batman held out a hand to stop her. Just in case. “Let me.”

Barbara shrugged.

He slid open the envelope neatly, noting that it wasn’t actually sealed, the flap just tucked inside the bottom half. He pulled out a blank white card and furrowed his brow, turning it over. There was a single line written in tidy black letters.

“What belongs to you, but is used by others?”

Batman read it aloud, nose wrinkling faintly.

“A riddle?”

“Looks like it.”

“Who the hell would send me a riddle? I bet this was Grayson’s work.”

“Who?”

Barbara rolled her eyes then hummed, squinting. “One of the other officers. Nevermind, forget about it.”

Batman set the letter down and put it out of his mind. “I’ll look into the bombing.”

Barbara gave him a faint smile. “I know you’ll figure it out.”

“I seem to recall you not having such confidence in me, before.” His raised eyebrow was hidden by the cowl, but he was certain it was apparent in his tone. They’d since moved past her rather antagonistic ways of dealing with him, but he couldn’t resist the quip. 

“I had a lot of big ideas, coming to Gotham.” She glanced away in something almost like embarrassment. “I’m still confident that they’ll work, too. One day. But for right now… Gotham needs Batman.” A sigh escaped her slightly chapped lips, and then they quirked up. “Besides. How can I not think favorably of someone who takes time out of their busy schedule to come stealing into my hospital room in the middle of the night.”

“You make me sound like some sort of stalker. Your father’s the one who got me in here, you know.”

Barbara chuckled, and one side of Bruce’s mouth twitched up faintly.

It had not been a particularly educational visit, he hardly knew more than he had to start with; but it was good to see the commissioner in good spirits. Especially after finding her like that, crumpled under rubble while everything burned.

He was nearly to the door when Barbara spoke again.

“A name.”

“What?” He turned.

She looked over to him, as if she hadn’t been addressing him at all. “Oh the— that riddle. It’s a name. I’m pretty sure.”

Batman hummed, considering. It seemed right.

 

 

He spent the rest of the night patrolling, keeping eyes and ears out for any hints as to what was to come. Even Crane seemed quiet. He may have been trying to feel out the situation as well. There was also a chance he already knew who was behind it.

And a chance that even if Crane didn’t, others might.

Once the idea was planted in his head, it wouldn’t leave.

Ever since his last encounter with the Joker, their last words had a tendency to drift through his thoughts, before sliding neatly back into his unconscious mind.

“ _Next time, you won’t get away._ ”

“ _But Batman… I always do_.”

There was something oddly comforting, in that. It could never be a _comfort_ to think about the Joker terrorizing the city he loved, but there was something about the routine. The predictability. The knowledge that even when he did manage to drag the Joker down to be locked neatly away, in a week or two or three he’d be free and ready to start everything all over again with something new. Predictably unpredictable, perhaps.

The anger hadn’t left. Thinking about any of the Joker’s victims, past, present or future, Bruce felt the familiar, bitter hatred, the disgust, the loathing. That was comforting, too. He couldn’t afford to lose that.

 

 

 

Bruce woke up to chaos. The news was going insane. Gotham’s top five most expensive jewelry stores had all been robbed in one night, picked completely clean. According to the reports, there were no clues left, save for a riddle written in bright green paint in each location.

The green set off flags in his head, but he was less and less sure the Joker was behind this.

There was no point.

As much as Joker liked to say he was chaos incarnate, there was very clear motive behind his well thought out plans. Even if that motive was simply ‘aggravate Batman.’ No one had been injured, no one hurt but a few millionaire executives.  
The riddles were curious. It couldn’t be coincidence that Barbara had been sent one as well. Half of him was kicking himself for not checking the letter over more thoroughly, but the other half was sure there was nothing more he could have gleaned from the plain envelope.

The police were under the assumption that the riddles would reveal the location of the missing jewels, and it wasn’t a bad assumption to make. Batman picked a more obvious one and ran with it, to start this new leg of his investigation.

**We're five little items of an everyday sort; you'll find us all in 'a tennis court'.**

The night was alive with scrambling police cars, struggling to prove that their strength had not dwindled after the destruction of their headquarters. Right now the illusion of progress was almost more important than progress itself to the officers, and he could understand why. Gotham had too much going on for citizens to start losing faith in the good men and women who served them.

Despite only doing what he could, he felt marginally embarrassed after searching nearly all the tennis courts in Gotham and coming up with nothing.

While eating dinner a few days later, he re-watched the report on his laptop and paused as the cameraman zoomed in on the riddle left on the ground in bright green paint.

“Five items,” he mumbled to himself. He needed more information, but he was loathe to admit he’d have to wait until the mysterious riddle-giver struck again. There was still that little voice in the back of his head, the voice that wondered what the Joker was doing in all of this. If it really was a new villain, he had no doubt the Joker was doing his own research. Maybe he knew something. Finding him and asking wouldn’t be an easy task. It wasn’t even wise. There was no guarantee the Joker would cooperate.

Alfred set a plate in front of him, and Bruce exhaled, pushing away thoughts of the Joker. As if Alfred would somehow sense who he was thinking about.

He’d been making a conscious effort to not avoid Alfred. “Alfred, tell me what you think of this. ‘We're five little items of an everyday sort; you'll find us all in 'a tennis court'.”

Alfred looked over at him, tilting his head. “One of the riddles from the recent string of robberies?”

Bruce nodded, fork spearing a broccoli floret, but not moving afterwards. “Yeah. It’s been bothering me.”

Alfred hummed. “A tennis court,” he repeated, considering.

“I thought maybe it was a clue,” Bruce explained, “but the police have scoured even neighborhood tennis courts with no luck.”

“A, ten,nis, court,” Alfred said again.

Bruce looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“Vowels, sir.”

Bruce blinked, and Alfred refilled his glass.

 

 

It was just a coincidence that he noticed it. Or was it? Swooping over the city, he’d immediately felt something was wrong. There were no police, no bat signal in the sky. No sirens, just another night on patrol searching for leads. And when he’d flown near the Museum of Antiquities, looked down, he saw someone had painted a giant green question mark on the great steps leading up to the building.

It was the color that put him on edge.

It was too quiet. He landed without disturbing the silence and walked up to the tall double doors. As he approached, he realized that they were open the smallest crack.

Batman took a second to check for any obvious traps, before slowly pushing it open.

The first thing he saw was a dead body.

Batman immediately moved closer, on the off chance that the man lying still with eyes wide as golf balls was still alive, but there was no pulse to be found. The man was a museum guard, if his uniform was to be believed. There was an arrow drawn on his chest in luminescent green paint.

Batman grit his teeth and snapped his eyes up, scanning the surrounding area for a purple suit and a red smile, but there was nothing to see, nothing to hear. He cycled through the modes on his cowl, just in case, and paused when he saw a streak on one of the walls up ahead.

It had no meaning at the moment, but he remained in infrared mode just in case.

Batman stood, proceeding forward in the direction the arrow pointed.

There were drawings everywhere. Over the exhibits, the floors, the walls, some in wide swoops that he couldn’t make heads or tails of, but most in little question marks. They washed over surfaces in rippling waves, taunting him with a riddle he couldn’t hear.

Down the hall, round a corner, there was another dead guard. More curves on the wall.

These looked familiar.

A diagonal line, a dot, the outline of half a circle. The curves were not random at all— he was just looking at them from the wrong perspective. Batman took a step back, looking around for someplace that would give a better vantage point. After a moment, he grappled up to the second floor balcony, turning around to get a look at the designs splashed over exhibits, bits of wall, and signs. Backing up, shifting to one side, squatting down, the curves began to take shape.

They began to form letters.

**R**

**i**

**d**

**d**

**l**

**e**

**r**

  
Riddler.

A noun. A name?

The voice in his head that cried Joker fell silent. Riddler… a new villain, motives, desires unknown. What was this all about? As far as he could tell thus far, nothing in the museum had been taken, the only damage the vandalism.

And two dead security guards.

“Help… help me…”

Batman straightened, eyes scanning over the ledge as he searched for the source of the voice. One hand on the rail, and then he was swooping over the balcony, drawing in his wings to land with a roll on the ground. In one fluid motion he was up and darting towards the faint cries.

A survivor?

A trap?

Both, most likely. Continuing down the hall he’d been following and then ducking into a small room off to one side revealed an elderly security guard curled up onto his side, the same green paint marking his chest in another arrow.

“Stay still,” Batman instructed, marching over and kneeling next to the man.

“Batman…?”

He looked the guard over. His pulse was slow, his left wrist broken. He was weak, but he’d live. That discerned, Batman lifted his eyes to the other’s face and growled out: “Who did this to you?”

The guard trembled. “A man in all green. Had a… bowler hat. He attacked me with some sort of electric staff.”

“An electric staff?”

The man coughed, cradling his injured wrist to his chest. “Horrible. Horrible. He wouldn’t stop saying these _awful_ puns.”

Batman’s eyes dropped to the arrow on the man’s chest. His name tag read Galileo. Batman glanced around the room they were in, trying to figure out why this one had been left alive. Or perhaps the ‘Riddler’ thought he was dead. It was too dark to make out the objects behind the display cases, but there didn’t seem to be anything special about the little space.

On the far wall there was a single line of text amidst a sea of question marks.

**If I eat, I’m fine, but if I drink, I’ll die. What am I?**

Batman frowned.

The door to the room swung shut with a wooden _thump_. He whirled around, but was forced to duck when the two glass cases to either side of them abruptly exploded outwards in a fiery blaze. Instinctively he swung his cape around to protect the civilian, clenching his jaw as embers from the blasts began to crawl up the walls and out of the displays.

“Mother of—!”

“Can you stand?” Without waiting to hear the answer, Batman slung one of Galileo’s arms around his shoulders and helped him up to his feet, probably quicker than was good for his injured body at the moment. Burning to death would be significantly worse for it.

He hauled them towards the exit as quickly as possible, practically carrying Galileo, who was mumbling a prayer under his breath. When Batman tried the door, it was locked.

“Get against the wall,” Batman instructed, gesturing to a spot beside the doorframe.

Galileo obeyed, though he moved slower than Batman would have preferred. The roar of the crackling fire behind them flooded his ears, but he tuned it out, sucking in a breath. With all his strength, Batman rammed his shoulder into the door. It gave, but didn’t break. He looked over his shoulder at the spreading fire, trying to calculate how long it would take him to get explosive gel on the wood and detonate it.

Too long.

The second after he’d determined this, he rammed the door once more, gritting his teeth as the resistance jarred his shoulder under the armor. Twice more, and the wood splintered.

“This way.” Batman kept at the door until there was a hole large enough for Galileo to get through, and then he followed.  
Just as his heel lifted out of the room, the fire surged and billowed out in a ripple of smoke and winking ash, like it had gotten a second wind.  
The cape protected from some of the heat, but they were propelled forward several feet, Galileo tumbling to the ground with a cry. He caught himself on his bad wrist and cursed.

Batman wasted no time getting upright, crossing the distance to Galileo in one step and gripping his arm to help him up. “We need to move.”

“All right all right, no need to manhandle me sonny.” Galileo steadied himself, gritting his teeth to no doubt counteract the pain. “I’m not an invalid.” True to his word, Galileo began to move at a pace quicker than Batman expected, but still slower than the situation needed. He was moving towards the front of the museum.

Batman followed, remaining near to ensure Galileo didn’t fall behind. He kept a steady eye over his shoulder, to either side of them, not positive that blast was the last of it.

Rather abruptly, Galileo began to veer off course.

“Where are you going?” Batman demanded, reaching for his forearm.

Galileo huffed. “The fire extinguisher—“

“No time. The fire department will be here soon enough.”

“I’ll be damned if some thug spoutin’ nonsense will make a mess of my museum!” He stamped on foot against the ground and though his leg wobbled, Batman had to be impressed with the determined look on his face.

“The firemen will handle it. We need to get out of here, there’s no telling what else Riddler boobytrapped—“

As if on cue, there was another explosion from deeper in the museum.  
Batman flinched reflexively, then used his hold on the guard to start tugging him towards the door. “Come on.”

Reluctantly, the man complied.

Batman could feel him trembling in his grip.

When they reached the doors, one dead guard still lying in front of them, Galileo gave a little jerk. They’d already passed one body getting here, and he’d remained focused enough to keep moving. “Just a little farther.”

Galileo said nothing.

 

 

A highly charged electric shock had killed the other two security guards. Probably the work of the staff that had injured Galileo. Batman had a name, a handful of question marks, and several riddles he was not inclined to spend time solving.  
It had only occurred to him after the fact the answer to the one he’d found in the museum of antiquities, and once he had he’d spent the rest of the afternoon with a grumpy frown on his face.

This ‘Riddler’ thought he was funny. There were enough villains in Gotham who insisted on shoving their (terrible) sense of humor at him.

Even after Batman had been able to return to the scene for a more thorough investigation, he’d found nothing pointing him towards the Riddler. Neither had the police. The media was having a field day. They’d latched on to the name, every other report questioning who the mysterious perpetrator of there odd crimes could be, whether they were responsible for what happened to the GCPD too. It was a mess.

With the police precinct still in shambles they were having a hard time mobilizing; and no one could miss that the police department had been blown to smithereens. Small-time criminals were flooding the streets, trying to commit their petty crimes while they had a better chance of getting away with it.

Between dealing with them, looking for more signs of the Riddler, and keeping an eye out for Scarecrow, Batman had his hands full.

That didn’t mean his focus was in any way diminished. If anything he was even more alert. So when a hulking figure scurrying surprisingly quickly through an alleyway near Amusement Mile caught his eye, he trusted his gut and shifted his attention.

He recognized them.

Of course, a giant, one-armed man was difficult to miss. Laforge. One of the Joker’s oldest henchman, he’d been around nearly as long as he’d known the clown himself. Fighting him was always a test to his stamina. While most of the Joker’s men would get put away and stay there, Joker seemed to favor this one, because he was always out of his cell by the time Batman confronted the clown the next time.

His first instinct was to take Laforge in.

He hesitated just long enough for another idea to settle. If he followed the goon, he might lead him straight to the Joker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re breaking further and further away from canon. Yes, this is the first time Riddler’s debuted in this universe... I wanted a new villain but Batman already has so many it seemed a shame not to use one xD


	13. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion, a difficult truth, and a clue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was quicker than anticipated.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> I felt like this chapter was going to be so short but in the end it was over 5,000 words. Then when I think a chapter will be long it barely passes 3,000. What??
> 
> Chapter title by JiMoriartea!

****As he glided across buildings, keeping low, taking note of his surrounds, Batman kept one eye trained on Laforge. Even if Laforge wasn’t going back to the Joker’s current hideout, he was almost certainly running an errand for his boss, out at this hour of the night.

Joker had yet to toss a card into the current chaos that was Gotham. Batman had kept out a watchful eye, but hadn’t seen any indication of the Joker’s hand in the way events were unfolding. Even so, Gotham’s criminals seemed to have a way of sticking together. He still wouldn’t be surprised if the timing of Crane’s fear gas and the explosion of the GCPD had been planned. He had no doubt the Joker, and any other criminal of high enough notoriety had access to information Batman would never be able to find.

The building Laforge eventually came to wasn’t as rundown as Batman was expecting. They were in Newtown, just outside of Amusement Mile. It was three stories and narrow, fairly nondescript, a sign across the entrance with faint outlines where letters clearly used to be. It looked like it might have once been an office.

The door was opened by two paranoid looking men who slammed it shut behind Laforge as if that wasn’t suspicious at all.

Batman sat perched on the building opposite his new target and took a deep breath. Then another. He continued this until his breath did not come out shaky on the exhale. His usually calm pulse picked up a few beats, he had to clench his fingers in and out of fists to settle the sudden restless energy in them.

It might not be that easy. There was every chance the Joker wasn’t inside.

Batman rose and glided over to the building to the left of Joker’s hideout, landing on the roof. It was a print shop that had seen better days, the second floor windows boarded up, the first floor walls covered in graffiti. In comparison, Joker’s hideout looked like a sanctuary. The same thing that had pointed him towards the Joker during the bank bomb scare told him the Joker would be on the upper levels. He switched to detective mode.

There weren’t nearly as many people inside as he’d been expecting. He increased the range on the cowl’s microphones, trying to pick up a familiar voice.

“...forgot the twizzlers?!”

“...again. Again? Fuck that.”

“...hot. Did you see that? Shit, man...”

“...do, Puddin’?”

Not the voice he’d been hoping for, but promising nonetheless. Batman creeped along the edge of the building, moving in the direction of the cloying tone that flooded his ears.

“I might answer dear _Eddie’s_ letter.”

There it was. It had been nearly a month since he’d heard that voice. Pretending he didn’t know the exact number of days made it feel less important, somehow. Guilt flooded him in inches, but he pushed it away. He had reason to be here. This had nothing to do with his attraction and everything to do with finding out who and where this ‘Riddler’ was.

“I like him, he’s funny. Not as funny as _you_ though.”

Batman rolled his eyes. He reached the other corner and leaped to the building behind the hideout instead, checking each window methodically. Two were closed with the curtains shut, one was open, but the room was empty, and the other framed the Joker like he was a living portrait.

Batman clung to the shadows around him, moving out of the window’s line of sight.

The Joker was sitting in a chair, expression indiscernible through the glass.

Harley was sitting in his lap.

“Shut up, Harley. And what _are_ you wearing? You smell like a skunk’s whore.”

“You gave me this perfume!”

“That doesn’t mean you had to dump it over your head.”

Harley let out a little humph, and flounced over to the window.

Batman could have made his entrance then, incapacitated Harley, questioned the Joker. Ask him what he knew about the Riddler. He didn’t.

The open window didn’t make the picture before him much clearer, but it did marginally increase the sound quality.

“That’s better.”

Harley dropped into the Joker’s lap again, and Batman turned off detective mode.

“Almost done here. You sure you don’t want me to put on the nurse costume?”

“Less talking, more stitching.”

Enhancing the cowl’s vision— why hadn’t he thought to do that before?— showed Harley carefully running a needle through torn skin high on the Joker’s bare arm. Bare torso. He was bleeding, just a bit. The wound looked like it had been made by a knife. Either the Joker had been careless, a joke had gone too far, or he and Harley had played a little too rough.

“V says hi.”

“And what’s _she_ up to?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Harley’s legs were swinging back and forth like she was riding a carousel.

“No spoilers, hmm? That’s all right, I _love_ surprises.”

“I know.” Harley curled forward and nuzzled her nose against Joker’s pale jaw, her fingers pausing.

Batman caught himself when he realized he was leaning too far forward, adjusting his position on the ledge so he wouldn’t fall.

“Speaking of surprises, the hammer’s _beautiful_.”

“I’d call it _smashing._ ”

Harley giggled, and Joker giggled, and it was all so disgustingly domestic. Was this really what two of Gotham’s most notorious villains got up to in their downtime?

“Aaaaall done. Mmh, you know, I like a man with scars.” Harley gave the Joker a wicked look, pink lips twisted into a smirk. Then she leaned in and kissed him.

Like it was that easy.

Joker kissed her back. His hands came up her sides, hers creeped around his shoulders. The blonde pigtails on either side of her head bobbed as their mouths mashed together in a vulgar display.

Batman ground his fist into the stone he knelt on.

Harley whispered something too quiet for him to pick up, and then the Joker stood, effectively pushing her off.

“Not now— I’ve got business to take care off.”

“Poo.” Harley pouted. She hopped to her feet, wasting no time leaning in to the Joker again, who just _let her_. Her fingers crawled down his skinny body, over ribs that were just a bit too prominent, down towards Joker’s belt. “It can’t wait? I’ve been waiting _all day_ for you to get back...”

“Later, Monkeyface.” Joker turned and left her standing alone, moved further into the room, out of sight.

Harley’s pout remained, and she chewed on her lower lip. “...Can I wait in here with you?”

“No, you’ll distract me.”

That made Harley smirk, and she brought a hand up to rest on her hip.

Batman was fairly sure the ‘distraction’ Joker meant wasn’t the one she was thinking.

“When you say later, do you mean _tonight_ later?”

“Yes, yes. _Later_ will come _sooner_ if you _get out_.”

Harley squealed. “Let me know when you’re ready, Puddin’! I’ll bring the mask.”

“Not the mask this time, the handcuffs.”

Harley saluted an affirmative, then sauntered out of view as well. A second later Batman heard a door open and close.

Batman waited for several long seconds. For what, he was not sure, but he waited regardless. He felt like a wind up toy coiled as tight as it could possibly be, waiting for someone to release the winder.

Observing the building in detective mode, he could see that most of the other people inside were on the lower floors, bar a skipping Harley who was making her way down the stairs.

Batman returned the cowl’s vision to normal, turned down the mics.

He waited.

What felt like ages but was only minutes later, he felt steady enough to move. It was short work to maneuver over to the other building, standing on the ledge beside the open window.

The Joker might know something about the Riddler.

He needed to question him.

He repeated that once more in his head, because it seemed like the very simple motivation could slip straight out his ears at any moment.

Batman peeked inside.

The room was very straightforward. He had no doubt this was a more temporary hideout, rather than any place the Joker intended on spending a lot of time at. There was a four-drawer-high dresser with cosmetics spread across like dice left to fall where they lay. The carpet was stained with what had to be blood. The bed was three queen-sized mattresses stacked on top each other with a few blankets and pillows tossed over top, and it was in the center of the room, most likely to make room for the heavy-looking sacks lining one of the walls. New money? Perhaps Joker hadn’t been as inactive as he’d assumed.

The chair the Joker had been sitting in seemed to be part of a set that included a tiny vanity pushed into the corner. Near the far wall was a desk that looked out of place for a bedroom. It held a waterfall of paper, sheets hanging off the edges, many on the floor surrounding the desk legs. That was where the Joker sat. Batman could not see Joker’s face or what he was doing, but the line of his shoulders spoke of complete concentration.

This was the Joker his goons saw. Before the plan was set in motion. This was the Joker Harley saw.

Batman slipped through the window, eyes trained on the head of green hair across the room.

He needed a plan.

Instead, he tossed off two batarangs aimed for the wall beside Joker. He watched him reel back, watched him fall and take his chair with him in a tremendously undignified crash.

It was irrationally satisfying.

Joker scrambled to take cover behind the bed separating them, and he heard a few giggles float up into the air.

Batman wasn’t laughing.

He advanced, had nearly rounded the bed, when he came face to chest with a gun. His eyes took in the sight of the Joker’s arm sticking up like a worm out of a hole in the ground, and he had time to take a single step to the side before the Joker fired.

Batman braced himself, flinching. Then confetti and glitter barreled into him hard enough to make him see stars. He growled in frustration, swinging his cape around to clear the obnoxious, sparkly cloud.

With a gleeful cackle the Joker vaulted over the bed and into his arms like an overzealous dog. For all his efforts to dodge or push the Joker away, he still went down in an explosion of brightly colored paper. He hit the ground hard, and turned his head to the side to spit out flakes of confetti as his vision spun.

“Well if it isn’t _the_ Batman!” Joker pinned him down with two hands at his shoulders, perched a little too comfortably on his stomach. Joker’s knees clamped his arms to his side. When he flexed and tried to shove them away, Joker backhanded him soundly across the cheek, and tore his own stitches in the process. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to check up on me?”

Batman’s cheek prickled with pain and he grit his teeth, a fresh rush of anger flooding him. “Don’t flatter yourself.” The eyes of the cowl were full of glitter and it was never going to come off.

“Oh _puh_ lease.” Joker rolled his eyes, one hand finger-walking its way from Batman’s chest to his throat and drawing a teasing line across it, like his nail was a blade. Or a needle, like the one Harley had used to suture his skin. “I already know you’re cripplingly sentimental.”

Batman was torn between shoving the Joker off, and trying to get him monologuing.

Not because he wanted the Joker where he was.

It was just far easier to get information out of the clown when he started rambling, and that’s what Batman was here for. Information.

Joker went on, the muscles in his thighs flexing.

Batman had the feeling that if they’d been sitting in a chair, his legs would be swinging back and forth like Harley’s had.

“Need I remind you that you bought me my _favorite_ shade of lipstick, just so I’d eat? What brand of orange marmalade do you buy, by the way? It tasted terribly expensive.”

There was the embarrassment again. Joker shouldn’t have been able to embarrass him. He shouldn’t have done things he would be embarrassed by in the first place. He needed to change the subject. The question of how orange marmalade could taste expensive came to mind, but so did something else, something that had been grating at the back of his mind incessantly since he’d freed the Joker. “Why weren’t you eating in Arkham?”

Joker blinked once, and Batman could practically see the wheels in his head turning as he processed the question. One of his hands rested on Batman’s kevlar-protected chest and started to drum out a rhythm Batman was sure he knew but couldn’t place. “You’re such an adorable little stalker, you are.”

Seeing the opening he’d been looking for, Batman freed his arms in one quick motion, surging forwards and slamming him down to effectively reverse their positions. The change to action made the irritation, the fury, the annoyance, and a whole host of other things that did not start with _E_ or _J_ and did not bring to mind the color _green_ surged forth.

He was here for information, but his fists wanted pain. Joker’s pain.

Words forgotten, they started up a conversation Batman was much more comfortable with.

Joker didn’t stay down for long. He did something with their legs, and then they were both on their sides, Batman’s shoulder hitting the ground hard. A punch to his face disoriented him briefly. When he opened his eyes, Joker was darting away. He reached out and snagged hold of the other’s wrist, using the momentum to rise himself.

Joker attempted once, then twice to yank away, his bones poking into Batman’s gloves like a built in defense mechanism.

Batman used his hold to tug the Joker closer for a quick jab to his jaw. Joker’s head snapping back made his nostrils flare. Satisfaction in the form of shivers down his spine. Retaliation in the form of a punch to his gut.

Strong hands around the back of his neck and his own aggressive movements had them careening every which way as their dance continued. They fell on the bed, bounced off, hit the ground again, rolled over and over until they slammed into the chair Joker had been using before and sent it crashing down on top of them.

Batman took the brunt of it, waving an arm to shove off the wood, then the Joker, when he tried to take the opportunity to get the upper hand. He didn’t reach for his utility belt, made no move to disengage, satisfied with the rush that came from such volatile, wild tussling. There was no grace in their dance in such close quarters, just squeezing and biting and growling and shoving.

It did not help the anger.

Joker’s giggles only made it worse, as did each drop of blood that spilled from his reopened wound, each twitch of his kiss-swollen lips.

Batman pinned the Joker down.

The Joker let out a dull “ow” as his head hit the floor, then grinned.

Batman wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed. Their eyes met, green somehow brighter than glowing white, each daring the other to make the next move.

Joker’s tongue made the long journey from one corner of his mouth to another, and Batman’s fingers flexed around his thin neck. He could tell Joker was going to speak, and debated whether or not he wanted to hear whatever it was he might say. He decided too late.

“The late great Doctor Peralta liked to put things in my meals, part of my ‘therapy’.” The words came out quite clear, considering all the rolling around they’d just been doing, and the pressure at his throat.

It took Batman a second for his brain to separate from the anger enough to remember the question this answer belonged to.

“I’m _very_ picky about what I put in my body.” Joker leered.

Batman ignored the response outwardly, because asking had only been a tactic to get Joker to lower his guard. On the inside there was immediate relief, strong and clear. He felt incredibly silly for the fuss he’d made over Arkham’s cafeteria food. Not that his complaints had been just about the Joker, the asylum patients deserved to eat palatable food.

It didn’t matter, he was here for a reason. It wasn’t to fight, to get angry, or to hear the answers to questions he had no business caring about.

“Do you know who blew up the GCPD?”

“You, darling, are a master at changing the subject.”

Batman squeezed the other’s throat tighter in threat, narrowing his eyes. “Answer the question.”

“And how do you know it wasn’t _me_?” The Joker tugged at his wrist, though not very effectively. It almost felt like he was pulling his hand closer, rather than trying to pull it away.

“Wasn’t your style.”

Joker huffed, a pout curling his lips. His make-up was smeared and there were traces of an entirely different shade of red fighting for dominance on his mouth. “Well, now I’m offended! Explosions, dead police officers, drama, what about that isn’t ‘my style’?”

“Not _enough_ explosions, dead officers, or drama.”

Joker’s eyes lit up, expression twisting into a grin that defied the physics of the human face. “You say the sweetest things.” Joker jerked his hand up and stabbed into Batman’s side with a knife that definitely had not been there a second ago.

Batman didn’t understand how this kept happening. Every time it did he told himself it would be the last, and every time he was wrong.

As abrupt as attack the attack was, the blade slid so perfectly between the new microscopic weak spots in his armor he knew the aim had to be intentional. He reeled back and jumped to his feet to avoid another blow, applying pressure to the wound. It wasn’t deep, but it wasn’t painless, either.

In fact, Joker must have just sharpened that damn blade.

“Tell me who blew up the GCPD,” he repeated, because now he was even more sure the Joker knew something.

The Joker, still on the floor, held out a hand like he expected Batman to help him up. After stabbing him. Now that was a joke. “All this over a little bomb.”

“People died.”

A few seconds later, Joker let out a huff, and dramatically pushed himself to his feet, exaggerating each motion like he was being entirely put upon. Once he was upright, he began to straighten an imaginary tie and lapels.

Batman was in an offensive stance, but he wasn’t as focused as he could have been. He couldn’t stop staring at the Joker’s mouth, not _Dynamite Red_ , but some horrible amalgamation of colors that had no business being there.

“ _People die_ all the time.” Joker gave Batman a pointed look, but made no move to mirror Batman’s stance, or strike a ridiculous pose, pull out another knife, or any of the thousand other things he might do to ready for a battle. Instead, the Joker turned and strolled towards his desk, like there wasn’t a Batman standing right in front of him. He pressed his hands to his hips, rocking briefly this way and that, head tilted towards the clutter in front of him.

Batman stared, waiting.

“So, he’s what’s got you so riled up?”

He. Even amidst the confusion he felt at the sight of the Joker’s long, wiry back, scarred and tightly corded with muscle, Batman caught the slip. Even as some part of him pointed out the flaw in Joker’s logic. The itch beneath his fingertips had nothing to do with Riddler.

Batman took a moment while the Joker was distracted and reminded himself loudly in his head: he was here for a reason.

He remained as he was, ever vigilant, wary the Joker would turn and become hostile once more, like a prickly cat who couldn’t make up its mind about whether it wanted to be pet or left alone.

The wait grew too long, so Batman tried again. “Tell me what you know about the Riddler.”

To the Joker’s credit, he didn’t react to the name at all, just turned to stare at him from over one bare shoulder.

Batman felt an inexplicable urge to move closer.

The Joker really was fire. So mesmerizing, beautiful enough to make you forget that if you got too close you would get burned. The knife wound in his side throbbed.

“Now, why should I do that, Bats?”

He did move closer, just a step. The Joker didn’t even flinch. He kept his eyes on the Joker’s hands while he searched for a response. “You’re just going to let him steal your thunder?”

Joker’s lips twitched, though not in amusement this time. They turned down.

Batman didn’t like that, and it didn’t matter.

“Hmph. You could still make it worth my while.”

There was a second where they were speaking two different languages. Batman studied Joker’s relaxed posture, the curve of his mouth, the bones in his wrist that jut out as he rested his weight on the desk.

“It’s not as fun, is it?”

“What?”

The Joker turned and hopped up on his desk, distractingly pale in the dim lamplight that half-filled the room. With his back to it, his edges fairly glowed.

Focus.

“Admit it. The games we play are fun! You find me, you save the day. Most of the time. Tee hee.” Joker leaned forward as he giggled absurdly. Meeting like this, in a rundown apartment building with a half-dressed Joker, it hardly felt real. The encounters that weren’t carefully planned by the Joker were always strange. It had to be, with both of them off script. This was by far the strangest yet. “Sure a few hostages die every now and then, but that’s a small price to pay for having me in your arms, hmm? And Gotham grinds along for one more day.”

Batman’s nostrils flared.

“The _Riddler_ doesn’t care about _fun._ He just wants to be smarter than everyone else. _He’s_ not going to give you extra time when you’re stuck in a previous engagement, or lie about bombs that were never there. He’s not gonna lay low when things were a little too rough and Batsy darling needs time to recover. He doesn’t get it, not like I do. Admit it.”

Every word purred in the Joker’s gravel-gargling voice made Batman’s eyes twitch open a fraction of a fraction wider. “Admit _what_?”

“Admit you _love_ the games we play, and I’ll tell you where to find Eddie.” There was a challenge in the Joker’s eyes.

For the first time, it was not a challenge Batman could accept. This was what he’d been waiting for, the call to acknowledge whatever it was between them. He wasn’t ready for it.

Joker’s face was like cold marble. Batman was used to it bouncing between expressions, malleable as silly putty. Batman straightened the few inches uncertainty had stolen from his posture and forced out words that he already knew would be insufficient. “You want me to say I prefer you to the Riddler? Fine. I like jokes better than riddles.” The growl of his voice was harder to maintain than usual. Once the sentence was over he took a slow, controlled breath, aware that he had not fulfilled the Joker’s terms, hoping it would be overlooked.

“Hmm.” Joker’s head flopped to one side, shoulder’s jumping up and down once. “Sorry, thanks for playing.”

Batman instinctively took a step forward, and stopped just as instinctively when Joker held out a hand with all five fingers extended.

“ _I_ know where the ‘Riddler’ is holed up. I might have told you out of the goodness of my heart, if you weren’t so terrible at following directions.”

Batman flexed his toes in his boots, swallowing. He couldn’t find words immediately, and was thankful when the Joker hopped off his desk and went on.

“So instead if you want the _goods_ , you’ll have to _do something_ for me.” There was something filthy in the way he said that, something sensual in the circle of his mouth as he formed the ‘o’ sound.

Batman ignored the way his stomach turned over on itself and forged ahead. “I’m not going to—“

“Hush, you haven’t even heard what I want.” Joker began to toss off baubles on his desk that had been hidden behind stacks of paper.

Batman was almost impressed by the sheer quantity of items. An old leather wallet, a charger for a cell phone, a notepad, three tubes of lipstick, a pair of chattering teeth that started up in an annoying, jittery racket when they hit the floor. He silenced them with a well aimed batarang.

Joker let out a single snort.

As Joker started to push papers away with careless disregard, Batman couldn’t help but take a curious step closer. It was impossible to tell with the Joker. He could be looking for a weapon, a snack, or whatever he wrote his latest punchline on.

Joker’s flitting fingers suddenly stilled. He looked up, meeting Batman’s eyes. The usual smile he wore when they saw each other was replaced with a deep frown, like he was incapable of a facial expression that wasn’t one extreme or another.

“Where is he?” Batman asked, simply so he had something to say.

Joker’s eyes snapped back down. “He doesn’t have as much ah… help. Apparently people find him irritating.”

“People don’t find you irritating?”

Joker turned and met his eyes, expression deadpan. “People find me hilarious.” Joker turned, picking up a piece of paper and beginning to fold it with the diligence and concentration of an origami master.

Batman frowned. “Joker—“

Joker shushed him.

Batman narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest.

A minute later, Joker turned and held up nondescript envelope, writing that Batman couldn’t read from where he stood scrawled across the front and the back.

Joker waved it in the air, like it was a delicious bone and Batman was a dog. “All you have to do is give this to _Riddler_ before you drag him off to Arkham.”

“I’m not going to be part of whatever you’re planning, Joker.”

Joker scoffed. “I uh, realize that we don’t have the same amount of _trust_ most couples do, Bats, but it’s just a little, _harmless_ piece of paper.” He waved the envelope again. “Or would you rather more people _die_ while you go off on a wild goose chase?”

Batman wrinkled his nose. “How do I know that’s not where _you’re_ sending me?”

Joker made a faux offended noise, pressing a hand to his naked chest. “ _You_ came to _me_ for help.”

“I didn’t—“

“Denial’s not a pretty color on you hun, stick to black.”

Batman stared at the Joker for several long seconds. Of course, that _was_ what he’d come for. Even if he’d thought it would be information he’d need to beat out of the clown. That thought made his hand twitch up. Another part, some guilty thing deep in the back of his mind thought of the challenge he’d been unable to answer and made it twitch up further. It took a few long seconds before he could make himself reach out fully, palm extended upwards.

The Joker tossed the envelope towards his feet.

Batman watched the Joker’s face while he knelt cautiously to pick it up.

“This is the part where you say,“ Joker started, leaning back on the desk and clasping his hands together. “’Oh _thank_ you, darling, I couldn’t do a _thing_ without you.’”

Batman glared.

Joker glared back. “Fine. Then I think it’s time you made like a bat and fly. Harley’s waiting for me.”

Batman crushed the envelope in his hand.

It wasn’t purposeful, but Joker still tsked, tilted his head, a lock of hair that had fallen out of place hanging charmingly over his brow. “Do you have a problem with that, _Batman_?”

He didn’t deign that with a response. The only _problem_ he had with it was what Joker had done to Dr. Quinzel, what she’d become. Simpering, hanging on him, calling him that _ridiculous_ nickname, slobbering all over his _Dynamite Red_ and he just _let her_. Batman grit his teeth, met infuriatingly knowing eyes, and opened his mouth—

Only to close it when he heard a tentative knock.

Joker’s grin split open so wide so fast Batman was certain his face would crack.

“B-boss? We didn’t want to uh, bother you, but we uh, we heard—“

“Move it, open the door!” Harley did so seconds later, wielding a comically large gun in contrast to her small stature. “Puddin’ are you okay?

“Just in time! We have _company_.”

Batman was already moving towards the window. Shots rang through the air as he dived out the window and began gliding, taking a sharp left.

It was all accompanied by deranged, grating laughter, and Harley’s irritating shrieks of “It’s Batman! Get him!”

He winced as his knife wound ached, pulled in ways it should have been by the way his arms spread to open his cape. An unnecessary reminder of the encounter.

The gunfire continued until long after he got to the rooftop of a nearby building and began running.

Safe several blocks away on the rooftop of an apartment building, Batman took the time to look at the envelope he’d crushed in his grip. Smoothing out the wrinkles, he saw a hastily scrawled address in the Joker’s distinctive hand.

On the other side were the instructions: “do NOT open”. There were smiley faces drawn in each O.

He scowled, and ripped the top off the envelope.

There was a piece of paper inside, folded in an oddly complex design. Batman frowned, flipped it over.

More words: Naughty naughty, Bats.

Batman scowled, plucking the paper apart (which was far more difficult than it should have been) to reveal another, smaller envelope. This one said: “I mean it this time!! ! !”

He rolled his eyes and shoved it into an empty pouch on his utility belt. Whatever game the Joker was playing, he could figure it out later. Right now, his priority was the Riddler. He had no doubt that by the time he returned to the Joker’s hideout he’d have already packed up and moved on.

The Joker certainly wasn’t on his way to Arkham.

Neither was Harley.

The two of them were free to do no doubt disturbing things with handcuffs.

With one phone call, he could have the police knocking down Joker’s door in a matter of minutes. It wouldn’t matter of course, the Joker would be long gone. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that he should have called the police as soon as he heard the voices, so they could have come while he distracted the Joker.

He hadn’t. He hadn’t even thought about it.

Batman made the call, and went on his way.

The knife wound was a persistent ache. He briefly considered returning to the bat cave to patch it up, but the promise of new information in a case that had been stale for so long was far too tempting. It would wait. Instead, he found privacy on the roof of a tall building and shed enough of the suit to slap a square adhesive bandage over the steadily dripping stream of dark liquid.

Reading the Joker’s handwriting proved to be another obstacle.

Was that a 5, or an S? A 2 or a Z? What was— ah, a heart. Of course.

Eventually he made out that the Riddler’s hideout was somewhere in Coventry. Almost suspiciously close to Arkham Asylum. Wincing at the burn in his side, he took off into the night.

Near the river were several old properties that seemed like they’d been snatched up then just as quickly forgotten about. Houses huddled close together as if in fear, in memory of a time before Batman. Sounds of the water floated by in the near distance, and the ground seemed to have a permanently damp, moldy sheen to it, even over the asphalt. Not a bad place to go ignored.

He was surprised to see the hideout Joker directed him to was a single house, a single story, boards over the windows barely hanging on by the skin of their nails.

He gave it a look over from every angle he could, considering it was packed tightly in between two other homes, and found there was only one way in— the front door. The back was boarded up tight, much better than the poor attempt that had been made on the windows. The wood there looked fresh.

He didn’t know what resources the Riddler had at his disposal. It was odd, going in completely blind. With the Joker, he always had a general idea. Endless waves of goons, chattering teeth around every corner, bombs and guns and knives. Dent, Cobblepot, Crane, Isley, they were all just as predictable, even when they managed to surprise him.

This was a new challenge. A thrill of something like excitement went through him, and then went ignored.

After a single check of the items on his utility belt, he approached the house.

There were no traps on the outside that the cowl’s different modes could pinpoint. He went unmolested as he walked up four creaking wooden steps, narrowly avoiding a rotting board that he surely would have gone clean through.

The door, likewise, was completely innocuous. Alarm bells rang at the back of his mind, but there was nothing to do but keep moving forward.

Batman pushed open the door.

He was both surprised and not to find it unlocked. The first peak into the house revealed nothing out of the ordinary, sad, moldy carpets, stained wallpaper, and with it all an oddly sweet scent. He couldn’t place it.

Batman scanned the area, but found nothing.

He took a step inside.

A click.

Wind.

Dark.

There was no chance to do anything other than fall.

 


	14. All Work and No Play Makes Batman a Distracted Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Batman finally faces off against the Riddler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thanks so much to people who are still following this. I'd like to explain what took so long to update. So until August of this year, I was living out of the country. I decided to move back and attend graduate school. I'm a graduate assistant, which means I'm teaching a class as well as attending my own. I've also been doing commissions to make enough money to live comfortably and save for the future. I've been trying to keep up with my personal projects but in short...I've just been very busy.
> 
> The rest of the story is still all plotted out, so I have every faith that I'll finish it one day, I can't guarantee when the next chapter will be though. You can follow my progress on tumblr (minyanstudios) sometimes I post updates about how much I've written, and some teasers.
> 
> I apologize, because I don't feel like this chapter is quite up to par with the others. Even when I was outlining, it felt like it was missing something, but there are building blocks here that I can't take out, else the foundation for future points would be ruined. I hope you still enjoy it.

Batman hit the ground with a grunt, barely managing to land on his feet and roll to a stop. Above him, he heard a creak, and a thump, and what little light had been in the room disappeared.

A trap. And he’d walked right into it. Literally.

He must have fallen into the basement, but it didn’t look like any basement he’d ever seen. He was in a narrow corridor with makeshift wooden walls surrounding him, the only exit a smaller than average door about five feet in front of him. Checking the walls didn’t reveal any weakness he felt comfortable he could exploit without worrying about bringing the unsteady looking ceiling down on top of him. It was like someone carved out this space themselves and then dropped a house on top of it.

He’d been careless. Distracted.

Green teased the corners of his eyes and he curled his fingers into fists, gritting his teeth.

The crackle of static filled the room. “Well well welcome, Batman! I see you’ve found my playroom.”

An unfamiliar voice. A man. He sounded jovial, smug, incredibly full of himself. Batman was immediately sure, without a doubt, that this was the Riddler. He’d achieved his objective, even if it wasn’t the most elegant way to infiltrate a hideout.

No, he couldn’t overlook the fact that he’d allowed himself to be captured because he’d been too busy thinking about the Joker. He’d told himself that his attraction to that madman would not affect his duties as Batman. If it was going to continue doing so he couldn’t allow it to continue.

Easy to say, harder to do. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been harboring this latent attraction, how long the Joker’s elaborate costumes and too wide smiles had made his heart race with something other than adrenaline. How could he possibly hope to overcome something he didn’t even understand?

“It’s not quite perfect yet, but I guess it would make me a rude host to deny you, since you came all this way just to see little old me.”

It was theatrical and melodramatic, and all Batman could thinkwas that he’s seen better.

“Go on Batman, there’s nowhere to go but forward… I’ll give you a chance to escape here with your life. Solve my puzzles, and I’ll let you go, free of charge. If you can’t make the cut, however… Gotham’s finest will receive their favorite vigilante in pieces. How many boxes do you think it would take to fit all your parts? Probably only a few if I clip your wings first…”

Riddler was rambling, Batman doesn’t have time for it. He advances forward, moving towards the door. The cowl didn’t reveal anything strange about it, but he uses caution when reaching out to turn the handle, anyway. He was aware of a small electric current that zaps him upon contact, but the gloves absorbed the shock and he presses on.

“Ooh-hoo! Neat little trick there, _Batman_.”

He hated the way the Riddler says his name.

The door opened up into another corridor, branching out three ways. There were question marks drawn on the floor in green paint. One was on its side, one was straight up, and the other was upside down. It seemed the Riddler had a lot of free time on his hands.

“You’re awfully silent! I had heard you rather enjoyed banter… unless you’re simply too _awed_ by my genius? I suppose even _I’m_ impressed by the way I trapped you so easily.”

“Quiet,” he snapped. The cowl wasn’t giving him any useful readings. After a second, he chose the corridor with the upside down question mark. He would get nowhere by standing still.

“Is that your final answer?”

He ignored the voice, which he noticed was being piped in by speakers wired haphazardly up the walls. The corridor only got more narrow as he advanced.

“Final answer, then!”

And he’d thought the Joker was annoying. He thought he understood what the clown had meant by _people find him irritating_.

Batman turned a corner, and was met with nothing but a dead-end. Well, not entirely. There was a small box just in front of the wall. As Batman approached, already tired of these games, the lid flew off with a pop and tumbled onto the floor.

A strange sound like falling beads filled his ears.

Then, a snake slithered out of the box. A real snake. An honest to god snake.

Batman let out a long-suffering sigh.

“ _In_ correct! That’s strike one, Batman. Shouldn’t the ‘world’s greatest detective’ be a little more... great?”

The snake seemed agitated. Understandable, if Riddler had it trapped in a box for an undetermined amount of time. It hissed at him, worked its way closer, and he stood still, once more internally chastising himself for getting into this ridiculous situation in the first place.

The snake’s foul mood could probably be attributed to the bright green paint it was sporting, likely done by the Riddler. Add animal abuse to his list of crimes.

“Time for the punishment game…”

When the snake was about a foot away, another rattling sound hit his ears, and a second began to climb out of the box as well. Batman clenched his fists, huffed, and steeled himself as the first snake struck.

He lifted an arm reflexively, grunting while the sharp fangs made every effort to penetrate his armor. They couldn’t quite, and he dragged the reptile off of him, tossing it to the side as the other struck at his calf.

“Ahaha! Come now Batman, they’re just snakes…”

Batman growled, kicking out his leg until finally reaching down and snatching the other snake away from him, allowing him to turn and retrace his footsteps. He doesn’t want to play the Riddler’s little games. Doesn’t want to stand on this imposter stage the man has built for himself.

“You’re not even trying, are you?” the Riddler taunts.

Back where the corridor split, he tried the corridor with the question mark on its side. This corridor went on a little longer than the other did, before eventually emptying out into a dead-end. There was a pipe jutting out of the wall, but while it was large, it was not big enough for him to crawl into.

“You know, I thought this puzzle was quite easy. I suppose I shouldn’t give you that much credit though—your puny mind is no match for my own.”

Who actually talked like that? All of the super villains he went up against were rather melodramatic, but this was just ridiculous.

Batman turned. Ten feet away, a heavy metal door slid from the ceiling and slotted into place.

Trapped, but still not impressed, he waited for what was to come next. It didn’t take long.

Water began to flow into the new, makeshift room from the pipe behind him.

“Ahaha! Riddle me this Batman, what’s black and wet and very much _dead_?”

Very rapidly, his boots were covered, then his ankles. Batman glanced at the metal door—he certainly wasn’t going to be able to bring that down, not with what he had on him currently.

“A drowned bat!”

Past his knees, now. His waist.

Of course, while the door was sturdy metal, the walls were flimsy wood. Batman couldn’t use the explosive gel, not wanting to bring the delicate framework of the house completely down on top of him. But a wall or two shouldn’t hurt.

He steeled himself, then rammed the wooden wall to his left with his shoulder. It was sturdier than he’d expected.

The water was up to his navel.

He rammed it again, felt it splinter, just slightly.

Midway up his ribs.

Batman pursed his lips. He pressed his hands against the wall, and then walked his feet back, securing them on the wall behind him. In a few moments he was hovering, above the rapidly rising water like a bridge. With all his strength, and a strained grunt, he _pushed_.

The water kept rising.

He kept pushing, harder, until the water reached his nose, his mouth, his ears—

Finally, there was a soft _crack_.

With one last burst of energy, he pushed harder, and the wood beneath his hands splintered, then fell apart.

Water began pouring out in great gushes, and he continued to widen the hole until he was able to squeeze out into the other side, spitting out the foul-tasting liquid and curling his hands into fists.

“Hmm, I was sort of looking forward to seeing you drown.”

Batman was wet, and irritated, and he was done with these inane games. “Show yourself.”

The growl made the Riddler scoff. “Or else what? I hold all of the cards here.”

“I’m not going to play with you, Riddler.” Water dripped from his cowl, his cape—from everything on to the concrete floor, creating a steady pitter-patter that seemed louder than it should be. The wound in his side stung something fierce.

“I have to say, I’m disappointed…I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

“Show yourself, and I’ll give you a fight.”

The Riddler laughed. Something about it was positively infuriating. “Oh, I’m sure you would… I’m sure you would. _But_ , if you won’t play, I have other plans for you.”

A low hissing noise crept up on him. He whipped around, expecting more snakes, but instead only saw the ground begin to get hazy. Batman cursed under his breath, drawing his cape around himself in an attempt to filter out the tainted air.

“Do you like it? A gift, from a colleague. Or should I say payment for services rendered?”

Footsteps made Batman whirl around, though it was difficult to stop and keep his balance afterwards. Even breathing though the fabric of the cape he was starting to feel dizzy. Disoriented.

A green man stood before him, swinging an odd cane back and forth and wearing a bulky gas mask. Batman tried to stand tall, but his legs were weak. “You won’t get away with this.” Empty words, nothing but filler. He dropped to one knee, and the green man chuckled. Batman blinked hard. “Joker…”

“Not this time.”

 

_“I have you right where I want you.”_

 

 

_“You complete me.”_

 

 

 

_“It’s not as fun, is it?”_

 

 

 

 

He was bound.

Batman came to consciousness slowly. Instinct told him not to open his eyes just yet, to keep breathing slowly, to not move a muscle.

There was rope around his wrists, which were pulled behind his back. He was sitting in a wooden chair. His ankles were bound to the legs. The ropes were well tied, he realized, after trying just briefly to shift his wrists. Given a little time, he could get free, but he wasn’t sure how much time he would have.

His mask was still on.

“I know you’re awake.”

Since there was no point in remaining still any longer, Batman opened his eyes.

From a cursory glance around, he determined that they were back on the first floor of the house. In the living room, from the looks of it. There was a single, dim lamp to his left, just barely lighting up the space they’re in. The rest of the house was covered in dark shadows, the boarded up windows not allowing any moonlight in.

He knew the Riddler was behind him, and he swore he can _feel_ the smug expression the man was directing at the back of his head.

“Oh goodness me, I just don’t know what to do with myself. _Batman_ , sitting here at my utter disposal.” The Riddler let out a gleeful cackle, and then made his way around to Batman’s front.

Instead of the gas mask, now he was wearing a green bowler hat with a black ribbon around it. He had trace amounts of stubble, and gaunt cheeks that made him look older than he probably was. His glasses seemed to gleam triumphantly in the oddly bright lights of the room.

Batman found himself immediately, irrationally furious.

It wasn’t the smirk, the look of utter success in his eyes, the way he spun his cane, or the utterly ridiculous question marks plastered all over his suit.

No.

It was the green.

He was covered in it, head to toe. No—not just green. His lapels, his cuffs, his tie—all purple.

There were two conflicting images lining up in front of him and this one was _wrong._

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. There’s no way you could have bested me and my superior intellect…or did I catch you on a bad day, _Batman_?”

He sincerely wished Riddler would stop saying it like that.

“I hate to repeat myself , but—how _disappointing_.”

“What do you want, Riddler.”

The Riddler paused, as if he hadn’t been anticipating this question. He drummed his fingers over the top of his cane, which…yes, it was definitely a giant question mark. This man had a complex.

“Well, hmm…what do I want?” He leaned down, staring directly into the eyes of Batman’s cowl. “I want to accomplish what no one else has. I want to unmask ‘ _The Batman._ ’” He lifted a gloved hand, bare fingertips wiggling into his line of vision. “If you take the mask off a masked hero, what does that leave?”

The Riddler wouldn’t get the chance to find out. Batman swung his now free hands forward, fist landing in one of the sunken pools of the man’s cheek.

The Riddler howled, stumbling back, and Batman quickly retrieved a batarang in both hands to free his ankles.

By the time he jumped up, the Riddler had recovered.

“Well, it looks like you know how to handle a little rope. I’d say it was impressive, but it’s not.” Riddler swung his cane like a baseball bat and Batman flipped back, over the chair, then landed and snapped his foot out to kick the piece of furniture into the villain’s chest, tossing the batarangs at him next.

He went down, and Batman lunged forward, eager to end this and send Riddler to Arkham, where he belonged.

Sudden, immediate pain rippled throughout every part of his body.

Batman grit his teeth, falling to one knee, seeing shocks of bright green rising from the cane that he’d foolishly assumed was only decoration.

The Riddler was cackling again. “Ahaha! How do you like my question _arc_?”

Batman dropped.

Finally, the electricity stopped, but the pain remained.

He could see the Riddler’s black combat boots come into his line of vision, and then he felt a thud on his back, the foot of the cane digging into his spine.

“Give it up. There’s no possible way you can beat my genius. We both know I’m the smartest person in the room.” After boasting of his intellectual prowess, the Riddler swung his cane around and smacked Batman in the face with the question mark end. “That’s why I’m going to give you another chance—to make things interesting.” He sounded positively giddy.

Slowly, feeling began returning to his limbs, but Batman remained still for the time being, biding his time.

“Riddle me this, Batman. What is it that no man wants to have but no man wants to lose?”

The shoes rocked back on their heel, and Batman took the opportunity for what it was, whirling around to knock the other’s feet out from underneath him. Every movement was agony, but it was either move or let himself be killed.

Doing so, a sharp pain went through his side. He could tell he was bleeding. Had it ever stopped? The Joker and his damn knives…

The Riddler did fall, but was up quicker than anticipated. Batman moved forward, but was forced to stop when his foot went straight through the floor. The worn boards were apparently not keen on supporting his weight.

Suddenly off balance, he was forced to the ground, struggling to do so in a way that wouldn’t end with a broken ankle.

“Ahaha, look at you! Just pathetic.”

It was. He’d let his poor judgement leak into missions where it had no business being. He’d come into unknown territory wounded and he’d let a crazed man with a question mark fetish tie him to a chair.

The Riddler brandished his “question arc,” a wicked grin on his face.

“Sorry, I’m afraid time’s up. Bye bye Batman, I’d say it was a challenge, but…I’d hate for the last words you hear to be a _lie_.”

“Riddler.”

“Really? You think you can talk me out of it?”

There were pieces of splintered wood doing their best to dig through the fabric of his boot, he was bleeding, sore, and a muscle in his thigh wouldn’t stop twitching. It was time to try something different. “I have a message for you. From the Joker.”

That got the Riddler’s attention.

He frowned, narrowing his eyes.

“From the Joker, huh? Not that I _care_ — he’s highly overrated. …But why would the _Joker_ have a message for _me_ from _you_?”

It was a good question, and one that he didn’t have an answer to. “Do you want it or not?” His brain was calculating a thousand options. He wasn’t sure exactly what the hell the Riddler’s staff had done to him, but his tech was not equipped to handle it. His muscles felt like they were locking up. The small burst of energy he’d managed was not going to be feasible again.

“…Oh, all right. I have you right where I want you, anyway. Hand it over.” The Riddler pressed a button on his cane, and the question mark began to glow a vivid green. “And don’t try anything funny, Batman.”

He calculated the risk of reaching for the pouch with the letter and instead tossing a batarang, wondering if his sluggish limbs could manage it before the Riddler activated his cane. Then he realized, rather inconveniently, he was out of batarangs.

He’d been out most of the night before he’d gone into the Museum of Antiquities. He hadn’t even considered stopping to resupply before following Laforge.

With little time, he pulled out the letter to buy more, dropping it between them.

The Riddler dragged it over to him with the tip of his shoe, kneeling down to grab it.

“The Joker, hmm…I can’t say I’m surprised he’s desperate to get into contact with me, he has to know I’m the smartest villain in this city.”

Batman didn’t know if the Riddler was talking to him, or himself, and frankly, he didn’t care. The man opened the letter with impatient fingers, a spark of interest lighting up his eyes.

“Hmm…’look behind you?’ What?” Riddler turned his head, and a knife somersaulted out of the darkness of the house, lodging itself firmly into his shoulder. “Wagh!” Riddler dropped the cane, reaching up to grab the knife he couldn’t quite reach, and a purple blur leaped from the shadows, shoving him to the ground and punching him soundly in the back of the head.

“How did you get in?” the Riddler managed to squawk, but his assailant only punched him again, then violently yanked the knife out of his shoulder and held it to his throat.

Batman would have taken the opportunity to pull his foot out of the floor, to call the police, to drag the person off the Riddler and put them both in custody—but he was shocked still. And not from the volts of electricity he’d been hit with.

Joker pressed his free hand into the Riddler’s messy mop of brown hair, his hat somewhere overturned on the floor next to them. “I have a riddle for _you_ , Eddie…what’s smarter than the smartest person in the room?”

The Riddler squirmed underneath Joker’s hold, his hands scrabbling against the floorboards. His glasses were pushing awkwardly into his cheeks, the lenses cracked. “I…”

Joker lifted up the knife, and then plunged it down—right back into the wound that had been previously made. “ME! Get it? HAHAHAHAHA.” He rose, grabbing the cane in the process, kicking the Riddler onto his stomach. Then he started to bring the large question mark down onto the other in rough, vicious THWAPS that each ended in a CRUNCH and a howl of pain. First his face, then his stomach, his groin, his knees. “Batman,” Joker said in between blows, “is _mine._ Mine, mine, mine, mine, _mine_!”

Riddler coughed. “Oh.”

Joker threw the cane across the room, stomping on the other’s throat and making him gag. When he pulled out another knife, and Batman finally found his senses. “Stop!” He could not describe what he felt, watching Joker’s deadly assault. Somewhere in the back of his head was guilt that he had not spoken up sooner. He focused on that.

Joker’s grip on the knife tightened, and he bared his teeth in a frightening representation of a smile. His foot bore down harder on the Riddler’s throat.

“You must be the Joker.” The Riddler’s voice came out strangled, yet somehow still smug. “I have to say, I thought you’d be happy…” he paused to squeak, take a breath, “about someone killing Batman.”

Batman finally got his foot free, and rose with difficulty, hobbling closer.

Joker kneeled down, pressing his knife to the Riddler’s cheek. “No one kills the Batman but me. Remember that, Eddie.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. We might just get along, after all.”

Joker wound the knife back, and for a moment, Batman worried he was going to plunge it straight into the Riddler’s face. But all he did was slam it into the floor hard enough that it stuck straight up, and then rose.

“Joker,” Batman said, because what else was there to say. “Why are you here?”

Joker did not look at him, rolling his head on his shoulders. He was wearing his usual, his garish yellow shirt missing a few buttons from the violent activity. The last time Batman had seen him, not that long ago, he hadn’t been wearing anything on his upper half.

“Are you working with the Riddler?” He didn’t even know what was coming out of his mouth anymore. But that was okay. It was okay because Batman dialed the police as soon as his brain had started working well enough to tell Joker to stop, and they would be here soon enough that his words didn’t matter.

He should subdue the Joker, should cuff the Riddler. Except he was bleeding and in extreme pain and for some reason, he didn’t feel the danger of the situation as he should have.

“Yes, Batman, we work together. That’s why he just beat the shit out of me,” the Riddler gasped from the floor.

Joker looked down at him, then swung a kick into his side.

“My genius is telling me I should be quiet, now.”

“Did you follow me?” That question was slightly less…nonsensical.

Joker finally turned his attention to him.

Batman felt something settle in his chest.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

_“Why are you here?”_

Joker pressed his hands to his hips, eyes swiveling around as he searched for something. “Don’t flatter yourself, Bats. I came here to get something while Eddie was distracted.”

“The letter?”

“What letter?”

Batman had the distinct urge to strangle the man. He looked pointedly at the letter that had fluttered to the ground as soon as Joker’s knife had found a target in Nygma’s shoulder, and the Joker looked at it, before his eyes widened.

“Oh! Well I thought it would be good for a laugh, but he was seriously starting to grate on my nerves.” Joker narrowed his eyes enough that they nearly looked closed. “Question _arc_? And I thought my jokes were bad.”

A weak “hey” came up from the floor. Joker turned, stepping on Riddler as he moved to pick up the other’s cane from where he’d tossed it across the room.

It hit Batman then, that he’d essentially been _saved_ by the Joker. Who was trying to steal something from Nygma, certainly not for anything good.

Once Joker had the cane, he twirled it in his hands, looking over his shoulder at Batman. Like he was waiting for something.

This was uncharted territory. This was beyond him admitting that maybe the Joker’s obsession wasn’t as one-sided as he’d originally thought. So he remained silent, and held the other’s gaze, words he’d never say perched on the back of his tongue.

Even still, Joker waited, like he was expecting something. He waited, and waited, and when Joker finally slinked back into the shadows, when Riddler—Nygma—rasped “you’re letting him _go_?” when sirens grew closer and closer, Batman got the feeling that the Joker was still waiting.

 

Two hours later, Edward Nygma was in Arkham, and Bruce was at the manor, letting Alfred tend to his wounds. The cut on his side was in a spot he couldn’t have stitched himself if he tried, but the rest was just Alfred mother-henning.

“The Riddler is behind bars,” Alfred hummed, sounding pleased, as if Bruce deserved praise for anything that had happened today.

Bruce stared up at the ceiling, and thought about how the Riddler had technically been caught by the Joker. He thought about telling Alfred. Instead he just added: “In a padded cell.”

There were all sorts of ways he could have emerged victorious in the fight. He could have hit Nygma with the bat claw, that might have bought him enough time to get the cane away from him. He could have used a smoke bomb. He could have pulled any number of things from his utility belt, but instead he’d sat there and gotten rescued by the Joker.

_Admit it. The games we play are fun!_

The Joker’s voice echoed in his head. The admission he’d tried to drag out of him. The one that had him so off balance he’d nearly allowed himself to be unmasked by a man who couldn’t even think of a more creative name than _Riddler_.

_You find me, you save the day. Most of the time._

He didn’t want to admit how hard he’d been thinking about it.

_The Riddler doesn’t care about fun._

Hard enough to make his stomach churn, to make his fingers twitch, to make him not notice the rotting floorboard right in front of him.

_He doesn’t get it, not like I do._

Alfred was saying something, Probably about the Riddler, or maybe his wounds, the other’s sure hands not faltering as they moved over his bruised body. Bruce found it impossible to think about anything but the three purple buttons sitting in one of the pouches on his utility belt, listen to anything but the dissonant voice, whispering words so powerful they felt like they would tear him apart.

 _You_ love _the games we play._

Bruce rolled over, and vomited onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter has a scene I've been waiting for for a long time, so maybe it won't take me as long ^^; 
> 
> Thanks again for your support, and I hope you still enjoy this despite how long it took and the slightly inferior quality.


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